


Flames We Never Lit

by roboticonography



Series: Flames 'verse [1]
Category: Captain America (2011), Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, Romance, Slow Burn, science equals magic, time travel (sort of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-18
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2017-11-08 01:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 78,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roboticonography/pseuds/roboticonography
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peggy Carter is frozen in 1946 and awakened by SHIELD in 2012.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beyond the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers story, and it is to some extent an Avengers story, but first and foremost, it is a Peggy Carter story.
> 
> I loved the character of Peggy Carter in "Captain America," and I wasn't ready to let her go at the end of the movie. But I also couldn't write a reunion of modern-day Peggy with forever young Steve--it's been done, by authors with more skill at telling that kind of story than I have. 
> 
> So now there's this. I've been working on it for ages, and it's kind of a beast, and I am hoping that posting will be the boot in the ass I need to finally get it finished.
> 
> A note on language: I've tried my best to approximate how Peggy would have spoken without using too many words that might make her difficult to understand. I take full responsibility for any anachronisms or malapropisms.
> 
> The rating may go up, but it probably won't.
> 
> Je ne regrette rien.

It was called Project Briar Rose.

 

An American experiment in prolonged cryogenic stasis, for use in long-distance space travel. They still thought extraterrestrial colonization might be the answer to the world’s problems in those days.

 

And because it would be _colonization_ , with all that the term implied, they were particularly interested in the effects of stasis on women of child-bearing age. Fortunately, the end of the war had yielded a bumper crop of young, fit, spirited candidates, most of whom were persuaded to go through the screening process with the addition of a relatively small incentive.

 

Thousands of women were interviewed, hundreds screened, and twenty of the finest specimens were selected to undergo the full procedure.

 

Subject number thirteen was Margaret Carter.

 

*

 

“What in the hell is _wrong_ with you?” Howard demanded.

 

Feigning supreme indifference, Peggy took a last long drag of her cigarette before tapping it out in the ashtray. “Perhaps that’s a question best directed to the head of the Special Operations Executive.”

 

Howard automatically retrieved a gold-plated cigarette case from some interior pocket of his white dinner jacket. He flipped the case open and offered it to her, but she waved him away. He was already paying for her drinks, and she didn’t like to feel too indebted.

 

It was a typical Saturday night at the Stork Club. Howard had taken her twice since she’d arrived in New York, although the first time had been (understandably) a fairly dismal affair. This time, she was determined to make a proper go of it, and had even bought a new dress for the occasion. Her companion obviously approved.

 

“No one’s pink-slipped you yet,” he pointed out.

 

“It’s only a matter of time.” Peggy’s style never failed to get things done, but it also didn’t win her any admirers. She also had reason to suspect that at least one of her superiors at SOE was a Soviet sympathizer. “I don’t fancy being a typist or working in a shop.” She’d done both before the war, before shedding her old life like it was a dress she’d outgrown.

 

He made a derisive noise. “You want a job? Hell, I’ll give you that. Come with me to California. I’ll give you more work than you can handle.” And, in case she missed the undertone of the offer, he raised a single, shameless eyebrow.

 

Peggy had been to bed with Howard twice already: once, because she’d been grieving, and he’d been comforting; and again, simply because he’d offered and she’d felt like it. She didn’t regret it, but neither did she intend to make it a pattern. Neither of them were the marrying type.

 

“I’d rather not,” she demurred.

 

“This is because of him, isn’t it?”

 

It was, and it wasn’t. The loss of Steve Rogers had been a blow, but the way she’d reacted in the wake of it was, she felt, symptomatic of something larger. She felt as though she’d been born in the war, born _of_ the war—as though she’d been pushed out of it, covered in blood and gasping for air, never having known anything else. She wasn’t prepared to face this brave new world at peace. It terrified her.

 

However, experience had taught her that if she was frightened of something, the best way to conquer that fear was to embrace it, and take out the change in bad dreams if you had to. The future was the only undiscovered country left, and she was determined to meet it head-on.

 

“It’s because of _me_ ,” she corrected. In the periphery of her vision, couples were dancing. Celebrating. Falling in love. It made her feel tired. Perhaps, she thought wryly, the long sleep would do her good.

 

“Fifty years,” he mused, his tone laced with regret. “I’ll be an old man the next time we see each other.”

 

“And still a preening peacock, no doubt.”

 

“Still chasing unavailable girls, no doubt.”

 

“Howard.”

 

“I mean it. Come with me.” He leaned forward, reaching out to clasp her hand between both of his.

 

“You know I can’t.”

 

“I think I’m in love with you.”

 

“Ridiculous. Get your elbows off the table,” she said sternly.

 

He pulled back, lit a cigarette without offering one to her, and smoked angrily for some moments, hunched forward as though someone were about to fight him for it. Peggy could feel her patience for his theatrics wearing thin.

 

She didn’t want to leave things like this. Not after everything they’d been through together. But soft promises and longing looks had never been her style.

 

“Well?” she said briskly.

 

He folded his arms and gave her a dour look. “Well _what_?”

 

“Shall we have another dance, or are you going to sulk for the rest of the evening?”

 

“I need a restorative first. Your mood swings are giving me whiplash.” Quick as a cat, Howard reached out and snagged a passing waiter by the sleeve. “Scotch on the rocks,” he said, “and a Dubonnet and gin for the lady.”

 

Peggy nodded her approval. Howard Stark was mercurial at the best of times, but at least he always remembered what one liked to drink.

 

*

 

The evening before her procedure, Peggy went to Coney Island.

 

She’d never been, but it was a place that Steve had spoken of with wistful fondness. She’d long since taken her leave of Captain America, at one of the numerous, hastily-erected monuments to Brooklyn’s favourite son; it felt more honest here, where where she knew he’d been happy, to say goodbye to Steve Rogers.

 

It had been a bright, blue-sky day, and even at dusk the beach was still littered with sunbathers. One young couple lay sprawled on a picnic blanket with the man’s head resting on the girl’s stomach. He was blond and broad-shouldered, his stomach and knees dusted with powdery sand, and as the girl’s hand tangled in his hair, Peggy looked away, embarrassed.

 

The amusement park wasn’t what it had been before the war—but then again, she reflected, few things were. Fire and neglect had conquered many of the landmarks Steve had mentioned, making it feel as though the edge of the war had somehow blossomed outwards and grazed this tiny patch of New York. But the Wonder Wheel was still there, as was the Parachute Jump, and the Cyclone. And—most relevant to Peggy’s interests—there was a shooting gallery.

 

She paid the exhorbitant price of twenty-five cents for the privilege of firing rounds of modified .22 caliber shot at several rotating rows of tin ducks. They made a very satisfying _thunk!_ as they keeled over, one by one. The exercise put her in mind of an odd expression Steve had sometimes used: _like shooting fish in a barrel_.

 

The spotty teenage boy working the booth whistled admiringly, his shirt coming untucked at the back as he climbed up to fetch her prize. He was tall and raw-boned, long slender wrists poking out of gnawed cuffs. The slope of his thin shoulders reminded her of Steve, before the procedure. She couldn’t help looking at him appraisingly, wondering what infirmity or defect was keeping him out of the army—then she remembered, with a start, that the war was over.

 

“Fine shooting, for a dame,” said the boy, holding out a Captain America doll. She must have given him a strange look, because he asked cheekily, “You know who that is, yer majesty?”

 

“I’m from London,” she said archly, snatching the toy from his hand. “Not Mars.” _Not yet, anyhow._

 

“Well, la-di-da,” said the impudent rascal, and tipped his hat mockingly. The grin and the sass put her in mind of some of the American soldiers she’d known—except, of course, that she would never have let an enlisted man speak to her like that.

 

She waited until she was some distance from the booth before sitting down on a bench to examine the doll. She turned it over in her hands several times, tracing the coarse stitching with a single finger. It was poorly-made and slightly overstuffed, the seams already threatening to pop. The details of its attire appeared to have been taken from Steve’s gaudy U.S.O. tour costume, rather than the sleek body armour he’d been issued for combat. She doubted that Steve’s estate would see any royalties—which was probably just as well, as he would have been uncomfortable with this use of his image for profit.

 

A dense weight seemed to settle on her chest, hot tears prickling behind her eyes. She was tempted to pitch the toy into the Atlantic where it could join its namesake, but it felt wasteful, to say nothing of disrespectful. He had done what any good soldier ought—what she herself had trained him for. It was despicably selfish to be so angry at him for leaving her.

 

She wondered, not for the first time, how he had met his end. Would it have been instant, his extraordinary body shattered by the violent impact? Or slow and painful, icy water like a knife lodged in his windpipe? Did he cry out? Say a prayer? Curse his maker? Call for his mother, as dying boys often did? Peggy had seen enough soldiers die to be able to picture the scene in gruesome detail, a thousand different ways.

 

In the end, she did for the Captain America doll what she could never do for the real Steve Rogers: she held it close to her heart, and she carried it safely home.

 

*

 

She lay in an egg-shaped cradle, naked but for a sheet. She thought of the way the steel pod had clamped shut on Steve like a giant metal hand—or _like a coffin_ , she’d been unable to stop herself from thinking at the time, claustrophobic on his behalf even before the screams had started.

 

She wondered whether there was anyone in the gallery watching her with anything other than clinical disinterest. She hoped Howard hadn’t come; she’d asked him not to, but it would be just like the man to ignore what might very well be her last wishes.

 

They gave her a series of injections, then had her count aloud, backwards from one hundred. She made it to fifty before her eyes unfocused, as though she were wearing thick spectacles.

 

“Keep going,” the nurse encouraged, her features hazy and indistinct.

 

But Peggy had only the vaguest notion of what she’d been doing, what she’d been talking about. “I’ll try not to scream,” she said reassuringly.

 

The nurse nodded. “That’s very kind of you, dear. How do you feel?”

 

“Tired.”

 

“Why don’t you go to sleep?”

 

The overhead lights were very hot and bright, and their haloes made Peggy’s eyes water. So she closed her eyes. Just for a moment.


	2. We'll Meet Again

The world had moved on while Peggy Carter had been asleep.

 

She woke to find that Project Briar Rose had been discontinued. No one in their right mind thought of space travel as a long-term solution anymore. Which was just as well, since the procedure had a number of extremely unpleasant after-effects.

 

Peggy couldn’t keep solid food down; she suffered from vertigo so intense she could barely stand, let alone walk; the lights hurt her eyes to the point where she had to wear dark glasses. She had to learn everything over again: grasping objects, going to the toilet unaided, moving her mouth around the syllables of her mother tongue.

 

She counted herself fortunate, however; she was the only candidate who had survived the procedure.

 

Lucky number thirteen.

 

To add insult to indignity, almost seventy years had passed. They hadn’t even been bothered to wake her up on time—“they” being SHIELD, a sort of modern-day bastard child of the SSR. Apparently, the Briar Rose subjects had simply languished in a subterranean vault, until a renewed interest in cryogenics had prompted someone to take a second look.

 

An endless parade of specialists seemed indecently keen to get a look in, and there wasn’t a single part of her that wasn’t inspected and recorded for posterity. Over the course of several weeks, as she slowly gained her land legs, they put her through the full gauntlet of tests—physical and psychological, invasive and exhaustive.

 

Eventually, once she progressed to the point of being able to cross a room without clinging to the wall for support, she was relocated to the long-term care unit of the medical wing. She had her own quarters, including an ensuite with a proper bathtub, and her specialized meals and medications were delivered at scheduled times and left outside her door.

 

She still had daily visits with her doctors: one who insisted that she move her aching muscles daily, one who told her she couldn’t smoke anymore, and an extremely patronizing one who told her she needed to grieve for everything she’d left behind—as if not blubbering like a schoolgirl meant she wasn’t grieving.

 

She soon had concrete proof that her newfound privacy was merely illusory. One morning, she fell into a protracted reverie while examining the pink plastic safety razor she’d been issued as part of her bathing supplies; the next thing she knew, she was being accosted by two burly attendants in white scrubs, one of whom wrestled the thing from her hand as though it were a pistol. It took a three-hour session with her psychiatrist before she could convince him that she could be trusted to shave her legs.

 

The entire exercise struck her as ludicrous, considering the number of everyday items in her room that she could have employed with deadly force, had she been inclined towards self-immolation. But she didn’t fancy having her reading lamp or her bedsheets confiscated, so she kept her observations to herself.

 

In between tests and treatments, her psychiatrist screened a series of educational films: historical documentaries, newsreels, biographies of prominent figures. This last included a short piece on visionary industrialist-turned-superhero Anthony Stark, during which his parents’ death was mentioned only briefly, almost as an afterthought.

 

Peggy waited until she was back in her quarters before indulging in a protracted cry. Stiff upper lip be damned.

 

*

 

“I’d like to meet him,” she told the psychiatrist the following morning. “Howard Stark’s boy.”

 

“He’s not exactly a boy,” said the doctor.

 

Peggy bristled. She hated this, hated having to sit and be _handled_ , as though she were a particularly backward child. “I am acquainted with the use of the calendar,” she replied coldly. “I don’t care how old he is. I really must see him.”

 

“A little hostile today, aren’t we?”

 

“Are we?”

 

He made a note. “I think we should adjust your medication.”

 

Peggy retreated into her chair and folded her arms. “I think _we_ ’d prefer not.” She didn’t see what the point was in always saying _we_ when she obviously had no say in any of his decisions. (She was, however, pleased to note that the cameras obviously hadn’t picked up on the fact that she’d experimented with her pills for weeks, in order to find and weed out the blue ones that made her want to sleep the day away.)

 

He nodded, as if in assent, then said, “We’ll just tweak the dosage a little bit.”

 

“When can you arrange for me to meet Anthony Stark?” she pressed.

 

The doctor made a regretful sort of clucking noise. “I’ll check on that. But I think his calendar’s probably pretty full.”

 

There were _two_ blue pills in her medication tray that night. She disposed of them in the sink while brushing her teeth.

 

*

 

It turned out that getting to meet Howard’s son in person wasn’t the insurmountable task she’d expected it to be—because, quite unexpectedly, he was just as eager to meet her as she was to meet him.

 

“So you’re the one that got away,” said Anthony (‘call me Tony’) mere moments after they’d been introduced.

 

“He told you that? How very inappropriate.” She knew she wasn’t supposed to smoke, but she thought it was rather rude of him not to offer her a cigarette. Even his father had been able to rise to that level of civility.

 

He glanced up at the ceiling and grimaced before looking back at her. He had the most remarkable set of features, and seemed forever to be pulling faces. She was tempted to tell him that his mouth would stick that way if the wind changed. He also had Howard’s piercing gaze, which was at this particular moment aimed at her bosom. She crossed her arms over said bosom and fixed him with a forbidding look.

 

“He left a provision for you in his will,” he explained, redirecting to look her in the eye. “I thought that was a little weird, even for him—leaving money to someone who’d been missing for such a long time. So I figured you two must’ve had something going.”

 

“He knew of the project,” she confirmed, deliberately ignoring the latter statement. “He was partially responsible for the technology that made it possible.”

 

“Yeah, Dad had his fingers in a lot of pies around here.”

 

Quietly, she said, “He was a good man.”

 

“Genius, philanthropist. Savior of the free world.” He said by rote, it as though he were reciting bible verses in Sunday school.

 

“No, I mean… he was a good _friend_. And I suppose—I suppose I cared for him, after a fashion.” For all the good it did either of them to admit it now, she thought. Seeing Tony smirk, she added, “Not in the way you’re thinking.”

 

“What was he like?”

 

The question caught her off-guard; Tony was an adult, or nearly, at the time of his father’s accident. He would have known Howard better than she, certainly?

 

“Oh, well. Rather like you,” she replied. “Handsome, self-assured, far too clever for his own good.”

 

Tony nodded, his face suddenly inscrutable. Peggy got the sense that she’d disappointed him somehow with her description.

 

“Daring to the point of foolhardiness,” she added.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well… as an example, one night, he helped me fly another friend across enemy lines. Without orders, you understand—and Howard was a civilian. We were almost shot out of the sky. He thought the whole thing quite a grand adventure.”

 

“I heard about that. Steve Rogers, right?”

 

Peggy actually flinched when he said the name—she hadn’t been expecting it quite so soon. “Yes,” she said curtly, trying to still her fluttering hands. “Your father told you that story?”

 

“Steve told me.”

 

She examined his face, trying to discern where the joke was, what the punchline would be. “Bullshit,” she declared.

 

Tony looked impressed. “Don’t you mean ‘bollocks’?”

 

“I know what I mean, you arrogant bloody—” She paused and took a deep breath; she’d be damned if she was going to lose her composure in front of this man, this _stranger_ mocking her with Howard’s smile. “I know to you he’s probably just a—a picture in a history book, but to me he was—”

 

“I’m not making fun of you. I thought you were all up to date on current events? We found him.”

 

She gaped at him.

 

“Well, I mean, I didn’t _personally_ find him, but… yeah. They dug him up just off the coast of Greenland a couple of years back, and he’s been here ever since.”

 

Peggy felt as though she’d taken a blow to the chest, her heart stammering painfully against her ribs. _He means the body, you silly thing_ , she told herself sternly. _Steve must be buried somewhere nearby._ She wondered whether the doctors would let her go and pay her respects. Whether it counted as part of her much-vaunted grieving process.

 

She braced herself and asked, very carefully, “What exactly do you mean, he’s _here_?”

 

“I mean he’s here in New York. Living, breathing, doing whatever it is he does. Wearing Haggar slacks with impunity. Going to diners for the early bird special. Yelling at kids to get off his lawn. We’ve been working on a little project together, maybe you’ve heard of it? The Avengers Initiative?”

 

She hadn’t, and in fact most of what he’d just said made very little sense to her, but through all of the nonsense she was able to grasp the most essential fact: _Steve was alive_.

 

Tony, meanwhile, was having an epiphany. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this earlier,” he exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “You were friends with my dad. Of _course_ you knew Captain Underpants. Was he as big of an asshole then as he is now? Because…”

 

Quite unexpectedly, Peggy started to cry—haltingly at first, then more steadily, weeping as though her heart were fit to burst. “Oh, damn,” she said helplessly, unable to stem the tide. “Oh, _fuck_.”

 

For the first time since she’d met him, Tony looked unsure of himself. “I said he’s alive,” he reiterated, loudly, as though she were hard of hearing or perhaps a bit dull-witted.

 

She dabbed at her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. She wished he’d do the decent thing and leave the room, give her a moment to collect herself.

 

Instead, he reached over and awkwardly patted her back. “I’m a big fan of the swearing,” he said encouragingly. “Rogers never curses.”

 

Inexplicably, this only served to make her cry harder.

*

Despite his relative ineptitude when it came to comforting crying women, Tony Stark’s famed mechanical prowess apparently extended to greasing the wheels of SHIELD’s bureaucracy machine. He telephoned the following afternoon to inform her that Steve was available to see her at her earliest convenience.

However, it was another, interminably long week before Peggy was able to summon sufficient rhetorical mastery to convince her psychiatrist. He finally agreed to a supervised visit, on the condition that Steve would meet with the doctor privately first.

 

“You aren’t going to tell him about that ridiculous business with the razor, I hope?” she inquired.

 

The doctor made a note. “Why shouldn’t I tell him about the razor, Margaret?”

 

Not for the first time, she wondered exactly how much trouble she’d be in if she belted her psychiatrist in the mouth.

 

*

 

The morning of Steve’s visit, she pulled out every item in her motley wardrobe and pored over them despairingly.

 

The only thing she had that wasn’t standard issue from the SHIELD medical wing was the plain, practical outfit she’d worn to the lab the morning of the procedure. This had been stored with the rest of the project materials, and included a threadbare wool walking skirt; an indifferent grey jumper that it had taken her most of the war to finish knitting; and a set of underthings, somewhat stiff and yellow with age. (Her nylons appeared to have vanished entirely, causing her to suspect they’d simply been pinched by some shrewd young female archivist.)

 

Moths had been at the waistband of the skirt during the intervening years; fortunately, that bit was hidden by the hem of the sweater, which had borne up rather well and still had enough ease to flatter her figure. It wasn’t exactly finery, but it was clean and tidy, and most importantly, it was her own.

 

She tried in vain for the better part of an hour to coax her hair into some semblance of a style, but in the end was forced to settle for pinning it back with elastics and kirby grips. She hadn’t been issued any makeup, but she still remembered the old tricks: she pinched her cheeks until they blushed becomingly, and bit the colour back into her lips. No one wore powder anymore anyhow.

 

The person watching the cameras in her room probably thought she was quite mad, she mused, stepping away from the mirror to survey the results. They were unimpressive in many respects: she was still too thin, too pale, too bare. But she was, unmistakably, herself.

 

*

 

At ten on the dot, Peggy was escorted to another level of the complex. Two SHIELD agents led her down a long, narrow hallway to a conference room. The door was ajar, and as she entered the room, she caught a glimpse of a long hand, resting on the conference table. Her heart leapt into her throat, and she was seized by panic—he wasn’t supposed to be there yet, she wasn’t ready, she didn’t know the layout of the room, she needed more time, she—

 

And then she was in the room, her feet having carried her there of their own volition while the rest of her was paralyzed by indecision.

 

And there he was.

 

_Steve._

 

He was exactly the same: an unyielding mass of strong, straight lines (chiseled cheek and jaw, stalwart spine and solid chest) tempered here and there by unexpected gentleness (soft rosy lips and gently curved brows, rounded shoulders, wide eyes fringed by dark, curling lashes). His uniform was different, and had obviously never seen combat, but he wore it the same way: tailored to the swooning-point and perfectly pressed, brass winking in the light. He’d been heavily decorated—mostly posthumously, she remembered.

 

She longed to say something, _anything_ , but instead she froze, rooted to the spot at the crucial moment, gaping.

 

He rose from his chair and stared back at her, looking as stunned as she felt.

 

As she usually did when she was feeling nervous or vulnerable, Peggy defaulted to her strengths. “Close your mouth, Captain,” she said briskly, “before you catch flies.”

 

He snapped his mouth shut, colour flooding into his cheeks.

 

She smiled. “It’s good to see you.” Then, acutely conscious of the room’s two-way mirror, she walked over to him and took his hand.

 

“You too,” he said softly, his long fingers closing carefully over hers. Then, with more confidence: “You’re late.”

 

Peggy didn’t want a handshake and a quip; she wanted to launch herself into his arms and kiss him until her knees buckled. But this wasn’t the war, and he wasn’t running off to do something reckless. And people were watching.

 

“You didn’t leave me clear directions to the rendezvous,” she replied evenly.

 

It was an easy volley, but he let it fly by, confessing instead, “I tried to find you. Your file said you were MIA.” And that was Steve Rogers, all over: compulsively forthright. “I didn’t think…”

 

“I didn’t either.” Peggy could tell there was a very real danger of her bursting into tears if they continued in this vein. Casting about for a change of topic, she observed, “You’ve cut your hair shorter.”

 

He scrubbed his knuckles self-consciously over the top of his head, making the hair stand up in all directions. “Yep. What do you think?”

 

The truth was, it looked unkempt, sloppy. Even so, her fingertips itched to test the pile of those short blond hackles.

 

“It’s very… modern,” she said honestly.

 

He nodded, with a rueful grin. “Well, good news is, last time I checked, my name was Steven, not Samson.”

 

“Steve…” She paused, uncertain.

 

To her surprise, he reached out and enfolded her in a hug. He even _smelled_ the way she remembered—carbolic soap and Clubman aftershave. Clean, warm, honest, safe.

 

She pressed her flushed face against his chest, blotting her tears on his lapel. “Steve,” she said again, and started to shake.

 

His big arms tightened around her. She felt chaotic, breathless, but also—paradoxically—still and quiet, as though she’d wandered into the eye of a storm. The trembling gradually subsided, and she could feel her breathing slowing to match his, the knot of anxiety in her chest beginning to unravel.

 

For the first time since she’d woken up in this strange place, she felt a sense of coming home.

 

“So,” he said, calm and sure. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”


	3. I'll Be Seeing You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still not completely satisfied with this, but I've decided that I'm through fussing with it. So here you go! Whee!

Peggy and her psychiatrist reached a tentative détente: Steve was allowed to visit twice a week, two hours at a time, as long as it didn’t interfere with her treatment schedule or “cause too much trouble.” Exactly what variety of _trouble_ the doctor expected a celebrated war hero to cause wasn’t made precisely clear, and Peggy sensed that this was not the hill to die on.

 

Truth be told, the discussions with the doctor were helpful in keeping her grounded; she’d had moments, in the hours and days after Steve’s first visit, when she’d wondered whether their entire meeting were simply a delusion, a sign that she had fully and irrevocably lost her already tenuous grip on her sanity.

 

As per the new arrangement, Steve returned bright and early Wednesday morning. His hair was windblown, his tie slightly askew, and he had an imposing stack of books tucked under his arm, giving the overall impression of a very large, very wayward schoolboy. There were dark spots of rain on the shoulders of his uniform jacket—a startling reminder of how long it had been since she’d been outdoors.

 

“Nice digs,” he pronounced, taking in the entire room with a quick, cursory glance. Then, rather unnecessarily: “Brought you some books.”

 

“Did you _really_? I hadn’t noticed.” She’d been aiming for a playfully innocent tone, but overshot the mark right into wide-eyed simpering.

 

“Mm-hmm.” He removed his jacket and carefully, almost ceremonially, folded it over her chair.

 

He sat next to her on the tiny bed, knees at an acute angle, and gave a concise, thoughtful summary of each book as he handed it to her. There were history books, philosophy books, books on modern political thought, books on popular culture, and books whose subjects were unclear.

 

Peggy perched, the books stacked between them, and listened. He moved and spoke with such compelling certainty; he seemed at ease in this new world, in a way he never quite had in the old one. Steve Rogers, it seemed, had been a man ahead of his time.

 

“It’s awfully decent of you to bring so many,” she told him, once he’d completed his review of the last volume in the collection. “I can’t thank you enough.” (The base, treacherous part of her mind had a few suggestions about how this might be accomplished, which she resolutely ignored.)

 

He ducked his head modestly, peeking at her through lashes that were even thicker than she remembered. “Happy to help.”

 

“I hope you won’t miss them too terribly?”

 

He smiled. “Plenty more where these came from.”

 

She’d forgotten how much he liked to read; there had been a running joke among the boys in his unit, something about there being no room under his new battle suit to smuggle books.

 

He explained about the SHIELD cultural immersion program he’d had to complete before they’d let him resume active duty. It was meant for defectors and the like (which, of course, it would be; how many people could there possibly be in Steve’s unique circumstances?) but they’d admitted him just the same, and the experience had been beneficial. He’d spent a couple of months in training, and then a semester of study at CUNY. “My grades were lousy,” he confided.

 

Peggy was perusing the back cover of a slightly rippled blue paperback with the bewildering title of _Voltaire’s Bastards_. “Tony Stark claims you never swear,” she mused, tapping the book with her fingernail.

 

Steve shook his head, smiling indulgently. “Tony Stark doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.”

 

“I don’t know whether he told you about what I said when I heard you were alive? I quite shocked him.”

 

“People around here are under the impression that this generation invented swearing. Along with reefer and dirty pictures.”

 

“I wish they had,” she declared. “You have no idea how many French postcards I confiscated during basic training alone.”

 

Steve’s gaze flicked up to the ceiling, then to the wall behind her. He looked so decidedly culpable that she almost laughed. Instead, she kept a very straight face and watched him pointedly, until finally he cleared his throat, indicated the book in her hands and said, “Yeah, so. Let me know what you think.”

 

She nodded, not wanting to speak for fear of betraying her amusement. In some ways, he really hadn’t changed. She thought about reaching out, trying to tame his hair a little, but couldn’t quite summon the nerve.

 

“Hey,” he said softly, tapping a square of peach-coloured adhesive plastic on her forearm. “You mind telling me how this happened?” There was an undertone of concern in his voice. _That damned razor_ , she thought.

 

“It’s not a plaster. It’s…” What had the doctor called it? “…medication, to stop me smoking.”

 

He nodded, looking relieved. “Nicotine patch.”

 

She touched a finger to her nose. “Got it in one.”

 

“Yeah, that’s good. Smoking… it isn’t good for you.”

 

“Oh, believe me, I’ve been made well aware. I have a crack squad of medical professionals here dedicated to keeping me alive, seemingly indefinitely. Regardless of my feelings on the matter.”

 

It was meant to be a joke, but Steve didn’t laugh.

 

“It was rather a frightful habit, I suppose,” she continued hurriedly. She wished that she could take back the comment, or that she could put her hand up to his face and smooth away the worried little wrinkle in his brow.

 

“But you miss it.”

 

“Do you know, I do? It steadied the nerves. It was a way of keeping the time. And it gave one something to do with one’s… ” Her voice broke before she could quite get the last word out. Wretchedly, she locked her hands together in her lap.

 

Steve reached over and covered both of her hands with his large one, the warmth of his skin seeping into hers.

 

They stayed just like that, not moving, not speaking again, until an orderly knocked on the door.

 

*

 

Later that night, after waking from a dream in which Steve’s hands featured prominently, she resented the cameras more than ever.

 

*

 

Like the other patients at the SHIELD recovery centre, Peggy’s personalized schedule included physical therapy. On Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, she was to use the gymnasium on her floor to work on rebuilding what she’d lost during her long sleep.

 

Peggy loathed the gymnasium. It wasn’t that she disliked exercise—quite the contrary—but doing it in this strange, sterile environment, surrounded by machines instead of people, made her feel quite depersonalized (a word she’d learned from her dreadful psychiatrist). And the whole endeavour struck her as rather silly. Who on earth would choose to ride a stationary bicycle when they could ride a real one and actually _get_ somewhere?

 

When she arrived at her usual time, there was a man occupying one of the machines. He was lying down, pushing a relatively small amount of weight with one of his legs, gritting his teeth with the effort. He glanced up as she entered the room.

 

“Pardon me,” she said, checking her watch. She wondered whether she ought to go back to her room and look at her schedule again.

 

He swung his legs around and sat up, remarkably quickly. “Hey,” he said, wiping his face with a towel. “My new gym buddy. What are you in for?”

 

She gave him a blank stare.

 

“How did you hurt yourself?” He passed the towel quickly over his brow and brush cut before tossing it on the floor beside the machine. He had a canny sort of face, and clear grey eyes that followed her as she crossed the room to the treadmill.

 

“Oh, I’m not…” She wasn’t sure how much to explain, or whether she ought to explain at all.

 

He nodded. “Classified?”

 

“Yes,” she said, taking the easy out. She arranged her water bottle and her towel around her and pressed the buttons that started her usual routine. “And you?”

 

His eyes darkened, and he looked at her guardedly for a long moment. “You must be new,” he said finally.

 

 _If only you knew,_ she thought. Aloud, she said, “Hm. Rather.”

 

“I tore the shit out of my ACL,” he said, turning to lie on his back again.

 

Peggy nodded as though she knew what that meant.

 

“My knee. I had knee surgery.”

 

Which explained the ludicrously small amount of weight he was using. “Yes, of course.”

 

“Where’re you from?” he asked, the same way _everyone_ asked the moment she said more than a couple of words—as though they weren’t really invested in any answer other than ‘not here.’

 

“England.”

 

“Yeah. Where, though?” he persisted, pushing his weights again, slowly and steadily.

 

“London.”

 

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

 

“And I suppose you’re an expert?” she retorted, before it crossed her mind that he actually might be. SHIELD employed all kinds of specialists, although the fellow’s formidable arms suggested he probably wasn’t a dialectician.

 

“No,” he grunted. “It was just an observation.”

 

 “Where are _you_ from, then?”

 

He tipped his head back and grinned at her, upside down. “Nowhere.”

 

She huffed.

 

“Are you a friend?”

 

“A friend of whom?”

 

“Okay,” he said, even though she hadn’t really answered his question. Peggy felt, not for the first time, as though she’d stepped through the looking-glass. She wondered whether anything in this strange place would ever make sense to her.

 

She decided it was best if she didn’t speak to him again.

 

*

 

By the time Steve’s next visit rolled around, Peggy was ready to attempt solid food, so he gallantly offered to escort her on her first outing to the main floor cafeteria. It was also her first glimpse of the larger SHIELD campus that existed beyond the medical wing, and she realized that she’d underestimated the sheer vastness of the facility.

 

The cafeteria was busy, but not crowded. They stood in line surrounded by all manner of people—Peggy couldn’t even begin to guess at what they all did, as all of their clothing looked so very strange. The snippets of conversation she was able to make out were peppered with unfamiliar words and phrases; even when she was quite certain that it was English they were speaking, the way they spoke seemed so very affected.

 

Steve loaded his tray with everything in sight: roast beef, green beans, broccoli, a mountain of mashed potatoes, sticky orange noodles. Cake _and_ pie for dessert. Apparently his legendary appetite hadn’t lessened with the passage of time.

 

Peggy selected whatever looked most familiar: a cold ham sandwich, a bowl of vegetable soup, a rippling wedge of green jelly topped with a dollop of cream.

 

The cream turned out to be synthetic and the soup far too salty. The sandwich was fine, if a bit bland, the bread marshmallow-soft.

 

They were deep in discussion of the books Steve had loaned her when a young woman approached their table. She was absolutely stunning, with the fresh face of an ingenue and a sleek coppery bob just slightly too red to be natural, and she moved with a fluid sort of grace.

 

The stranger placed a hand on Steve’s shoulder, purring, “Nice uniform.” Her voice was low and smoky.

 

Peggy expected him to blush and stammer, as he usually did when a pretty girl paid him some attention. Steve, however, did neither, merely tipping his head back and smiling up at her. “Thanks.”

 

It was then that Peggy noticed: Steve was the only person in the room in identifiably military dress. This wasn’t what he normally wore, she realized. He was doing it to humour her. She wondered whether it was something her doctor had recommended—or, worse still, something he and Steve had decided on together.

 

Peggy had never put much stock in the power of prayer, but in that moment she actually, honestly _prayed_ for a cigarette.

 

“How’s it going?” Steve was asking the girl, who shrugged eloquently. “That good?” he teased. Then, seized by a belated attack of courtesy, he made introductions: “Natasha, this is my friend, Peggy Carter. Peggy, this is Natasha, one of my colleagues.”

 

Peggy raised an eyebrow. Apparently, _Natasha_ either did not possess or did not merit a surname.

 

The two women exchanged appraising looks: Natasha wore a sleek, skin-tight version of the standard SHIELD uniform, and Peggy felt suddenly self-conscious in her outmoded skirt and ratty jumper. Nevertheless, she said, “Lovely to meet you,” in as cordial a tone as she could muster, and offered her hand. Like the rest of her, Natasha’s fingers were small, slender, and ice-cold.

 

“Yes. I’ve heard a lot about you,” replied the other woman.

 

“How odd. I haven’t heard anything at all about _you_ ,” said Peggy, somewhat cattily.

 

Rather than responding in kind, Natasha simply nodded and said, “Enjoy your lunch.” She petted Steve’s shoulder a final time and sashayed off.

 

Peggy affected an air of disinterest and remarked, “She seems very nice.” The truth was, she had seemed nothing of the sort; Peggy had found her to be rather off-putting.

 

Steve popped in a mouthful of food, and bobbed his head enthusiastically as he chewed and swallowed. “Oh, yeah. She’s great.”

 

“Have you worked together long?”

 

“A little while. She was assigned to brief me when I first started working with SHIELD.” Seemingly as an aside, he added, “We dated for a bit.”

 

Peggy paused with her fork midway to her mouth, thinking she must have either misheard or misunderstood. “Pardon?”

 

“Natasha and I used to go out together,” he repeated, more slowly, and she observed that the tips of his ears had gone pink.

 

So, not a misunderstanding, then.

 

“I see,” Peggy replied. She set the fork down carefully, uncertain of where to look or what to do next. There was absolutely no reason why this ought to bother her, she told herself sternly. It wasn’t as though the two of them had made binding promises to one another—they’d kissed, once, and barely that. She saw that moment in her mind as Steve must see it: a curiosity, an artifact belonging to another life.

 

Steve asked, “Did you ever—was there anyone special? After the war?”

 

She toyed with the idea of telling him about Howard… but what was there to tell, really? She shook her head, feeling a bit surreal.

 

“Oh,” he said, a little too loudly.

 

Peggy didn’t really want to know the answer, but she thought she’d better get it over with: “Do you… I mean to say, are you seeing anyone now?”

 

“No. Are you?”

 

“Don’t be asinine,” she snapped. “I’ve been in hospital this entire time, I don’t know anyone here, who on earth would I—” She paused when she saw him struggling to keep a straight face. “You’re having me on,” she surmised, blushing angrily.

 

“Not exactly.”

 

“But you do think I’m being silly, is that it?”

 

“I think we’re both doing a lot of talking to avoid saying what we really want to say.”

 

“Which is?”

 

“I missed you,” he said simply.

 

She nodded, and tried not to show her disappointment—yes, _of course_ she’d missed him, but there was so much more to it than that.

 

But it was different for Steve. He had a home, friends, work, things that tied him to this time. All she really had was him.

 

Peggy steeled herself. She had never been completely dependent on a man— _any_ man—and she certainly wasn’t about to start now.

 

“When I come back on Friday,” he continued, “we should go out. Do you mind if I ask your doctor about it?”

 

“I suppose you could,” she said, offhandedly, as though the whole endeavour were of absolutely no consequence. With an acerbic little smirk, she added, “We’ll wear our own clothes, for a change, shall we?”

 

Steve appeared startled by her change of tone, but said, “Sure.”

 

She felt a sharp twist of remorse in her stomach. It wasn’t fair to punish Steve for her predicament, she reflected—not when her own stubbornness had propelled her here in the first place.

 

“I’m starting to sound like my horrid psychiatrist,” she told him, honestly contrite. “What I mean to say is, please wear whatever you like. Whatever you would usually wear.”

 

With a slow, sidelong smile, he asked, “What, you don’t like my Class As? Got my fruit salad on and everything…” He gestured to the array of ribbons and medals pinned to his jacket.

 

“Are you here to visit me in a professional capacity?”

 

“No.”

 

“Well, then,” she said crisply, thereby pronouncing the matter settled. “Where do you think we ought to go on our outing?”

 

“Central Park? I was thinking a picnic, if the weather’s nice.”

 

“Do you mean you can’t simply order it to be sunny? You know, between that, the lack of flying cars, and the food I’ve just eaten, I must say I’m rather disappointed in this future of yours.”

 

“I don’t think cafeteria food was ever that good,” he countered, with a patient smile. “We just complained about it less.”

 

“If you can promise me a decent meal on this picnic, then by all means, let’s.”

 

“Okay,” he said. “Friday. It’s a date.”


	4. A String of Pearls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear this story will have a plot eventually. Maybe.

“I need new clothes,” Peggy announced.

 

Tony Stark was sprawled across her cot, flipping aimlessly through a dense tome about the Cold War. He couldn’t even be bothered to remove his shoes. “Sure. Yeah. I can make that happen,” he said, in a tone that made it quite clear he wasn’t paying attention.

 

She surveyed him critically. “ _Can_ you?” she asked, dubious. After all, the man was perpetually dishevelled, and was at this very moment wearing sunglasses indoors. “Are you now a couturier, in addition to your other accomplishments?”

 

He lifted his head and appeared, _finally_ , to be listening to the conversation they were having. “Did you just call me something dirty in French?”

 

“Feet off the bed,” she ordered, in the clipped tones she had traditionally reserved for training new recruits.

 

He sat up automatically, tossing the book aside in a manner that suggested he didn’t particularly care where it landed. She wondered whether his inveterate carelessness, like that of his father, extended to other people’s hearts as well as their possessions.

 

“New clothes,” he echoed.

 

“Yes. Clothes, shoes, makeup. Where does one even begin?”

 

He appeared nonplussed for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “Pepper,” he declared, jabbing an emphatic index finger in Peggy’s direction.

 

“I assume you’re referring to a person of some sort.”

 

He nodded. “She’s my—associate.”

 

Peggy made no comment, but couldn’t help raising an eyebrow at his word choice.

 

“And she’s a fashion junkie. I’ll get her to come and take you on a shopping tour of Manhattan.”

 

Peggy wasn’t keen on the idea. Her past experience with so-called women of fashion—particularly the ones who attached themselves to men called Stark—had shown them to be vain, empty-headed creatures. “Isn’t Manhattan supposed to be rather expensive?” she hedged.

 

“I’ll give her my credit card,” Tony assured her. “Sky’s the limit. Go nuts.”

 

Peggy could feel her cheeks warming. “I didn’t mean you should…”

 

Tony flicked his hand dismissively—a gesture she’d seen Howard make a hundred times over, whenever she’d offered to pay for her own meals or drinks or cigarettes. “Just let Pepper take care of everything. She knows a lot about this stuff. And she’s pretty sharp. You’ll love her.”

 

It was obvious that _someone_ certainly did.

 

“I doubt my doctor will approve two outings in one week,” she mused.

 

“Your doctor is a fascist.”

 

“Have a care,” said Peggy tightly. She had very little patience for the way modern people seemed to use words like _fascist_ (or—heaven forbid— _Nazi_ )so casually, as though despotism were merely a rhetorical concept.

 

“I’ll handle it,” Tony insisted, with such a stubborn look that she smiled in spite of herself. Despite his eccentricities and his complete and willful ignorance of common courtesy, he had been unfailingly kind. And, though she would never admit it, his antics amused her.

 

“Has anyone told you how very like your father you are?” she asked.

 

He rolled his eyes elaborately. “We’re having a nice time here. Don’t ruin it.”

 

*

 

Pepper Potts called for Peggy precisely on time. True to Tony’s description of her, she was smartly-dressed, and seemed very sweet, if slightly anxious. She apologized for things that weren’t her fault—the gloomy weather, her lack of foresight in not bringing an umbrella, the unavailability of parking in Manhattan, the nonexistent mess in her big silver car, the cacophony of noises on the radio that passed for music. She editorialized her own stories in the middle of telling them, veering off onto strange tangents or pausing to expand on statements that really didn’t need to be qualified.

 

Peggy had known, through the films she’d watched and the books she’d read, that New York was different, but the impact of actually _seeing_ it hit her like a sledgehammer the moment they were away from the SHIELD campus.

 

She knew she must seem terribly thoughtless, but she couldn’t tear herself away from the window long enough to give her full attention to Pepper’s conversation. She felt as though she’d stepped into the pages of a novel by H.G. Wells or Jules Verne.

 

But there were parts of the island that appeared to have been bombed out—rain pelted the decimated hulls of buildings, broken glass and warped steel, ragged chunks of cement and concrete.

 

An awful thought occurred to her. “Are we at war?” she asked.

 

Pepper glanced over at her. “No. There was an attack,” she said quietly. “About eight months ago. We’re in the process of rebuilding.”

 

“An attack by whom? By _what?_ ” She tried to picture the siege engine that could have wrought such wholesale destruction. She hoped it wasn’t some small-scale descendant of the atomic bomb. Howard would be turning in his grave. (Which, she reminded herself, was owed a visit.)

 

“Would you believe me if I said extra-terrestrials?”

 

“Men from space, you mean? _War of the Worlds_?”

 

Pepper nodded.

 

Peggy struggled with the enormity of this for a moment. “Does that often happen?” she asked.

 

“This was the first time. You should ask Tony about it, he was there. He helped to stop them.”

 

“And you?”

 

“I was out of town,” said Pepper, her voice breaking a little. Peggy sensed it was a raw subject, and opted to let the matter drop.

 

The rain had lessened to a misty drizzle when they arrived at Pepper’s favourite clothes shop. “I think we’ll be able to find you something here,” she said, pointing to a window display. A black lacquered mannequin—legs apart, hip saucily cocked—modeled a trim grey wool suit, not unlike what Peggy would have worn before the uniform became her daily fare. Further along, a white mannequin, posed even more provocatively, sported a chic pair of wide-legged sailor trousers and a boatneck sweater. For the first time, Peggy felt as though modern fashion made sense to her.

 

Then she spotted the sign over the storefront. “I’m not going in there,” she announced.

 

Pepper was clearly puzzled. “You don’t like the designs?”

 

“It doesn’t matter. She was a spy for the Nazis.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Coco bloody _Chanel_ , that’s who!”

 

“I’m very sorry. I didn’t know.” Pepper, now slightly wilted in the damp, looked down at her own stylish pantsuit guiltily. “We’ll go somewhere else.”

 

Peggy’s face felt hot. She told herself she was being unreasonable—and what was worse, _rude_. “That was a long time ago,” she conceded, conscious of Pepper’s quietly sympathetic gaze. “One can’t hold the name responsible for the actions of the individual.” Deliberately casual, she added, “I suppose young Master Stark is living proof of that.”

 

“I suppose he is,” said Pepper. The faint blush that accompanied her smile appeared to confirm what Peggy had already suspected. Dryly, she added, “I hope you called him that to his face.”

 

“I’ve called him a number of things,” Peggy replied austerely. “He’s rather a preposterous man.”

 

Pepper’s narrow lips twisted, as though she were biting back a laugh. “I can’t argue with that.”

 

Pepper had a good eye for a frock, and made suggestions that were both practical and becoming. Peggy gravitated towards fabrics that felt familiar and cuts that were deemed conservative by modern standards. Under Pepper’s conscientious supervision, she soon acquired a solid week’s worth of basics: skirts, slacks, tops, a light jacket.

 

The key, Pepper explained, was to build a palette around a single basic colour, so that all of one’s pieces could be worn interchangeably. “With your skin tone and hair colour,” she suggested, “I think red is the way to go.”

 

While Peggy refused to modernize either her shoes (serviceable dress ties) or her cosmetics (specifically her favourite shade of lipstick), she did let Pepper talk her into a couple of purchases that were decidedly more daring than anything she’d ever worn.

 

One was a pair of jeans, her first: indigo denim, snug as a second skin, with a zipper in the front rather than at the side. The fabric was a bit stiff, and bulky at the seams, but Pepper assured her it would become more comfortable with wear.

The other item was a flouncy scarlet number that Pepper characterized as “a show-stopper.”

 

“And me without a show,” Peggy retorted, examining herself critically in the dressing-room mirror. The line of the thing wasn’t bad—a fitted bodice and a gauzy A-line flare, perfectly suited to her generous figure. However, the neckline was quite low, to the point where her entire brassiere was exposed.

 

“It’s perfect,” said Pepper reassuringly, patting her on the shoulder. “You just need a camisole underneath, and a different bra. I’ll get someone to bring you a few to try. What size are you?”

 

Peggy glanced down at her cleavage. “I’m… not quite sure. What sizes are there?”

 

Obviously not one to be caught unprepared, Pepper dug into her handbag and came up with a dressmaker’s tape measure. “We’ll figure it out,” she said, with such grim determination that Peggy couldn’t help but laugh.

 

After the shopping, Pepper conducted her to a coffee shop and treated her to a much-needed restorative; Peggy had the distinct sense that she was being handled, but it was done with so much respect and genuine good feeling that she really couldn’t bring herself to protest.

 

With her miscellany of bags and boxes tucked around her under the table, she suddenly found herself feeling considerably better-equipped to face the new world.

 

*

 

Peggy selected her outfit for the picnic with due care and deliberation. In addition to helping her shop for clothes, Pepper had provided her with a thick stack of glossy magazines to help her get up to date on the modern fashions. The titles were mostly ones Peggy recognized— _Vogue_ , _Harper’s Bazaar_ , _Elle—_ but the contents were vastly different. She was accustomed to looking neat as a pin and twice as sharp, but nowadays it was the done thing to look as though one hadn’t taken any pains at all in dressing.

 

In the end, she chose a cap-sleeved sundress (crisp white cotton, with a pattern of blowsy pink-and-red camellias along the hem) and a soft grey cardigan which the label claimed was wool (Peggy had her doubts). She wore her hair loose, letting it fall naturally, and went without nylons rather than risk the indignity of cheap modern pantyhose rolling down around her waist. She’d gone bare-legged for the war effort anyhow, so it wasn’t really a hardship. At least now she wouldn’t have to draw the seams onto the backs of her legs.

 

She missed her tidy victory rolls, her hat and gloves, her uniform—not the most flattering, but solid and serviceable. She missed heavy fabrics, and sturdy shoes; most of all, she missed her structured undergarments. Even wearing both a brassiere and a camisole, she still felt as though her bosom was on display, to say nothing of her backside.

 

It wasn’t that Peggy was ashamed of her figure; privately, she’d always thought it rather admirable. But the plain truth was, a garment that she would have called a _slip_ was now considered to be a _dress_. One couldn’t help feeling a bit self-conscious parading around in public in these flimsy, low-cut, ready-for-bed-in-the-street clothes.

 

She met Steve in the front foyer of the medical wing. She expected him to be appreciative of her efforts, or at least her décolletage, but he showed no reaction to her attire at all. He’d clearly had time to adjust to the modern aesthetic. (She couldn’t help but wonder how _hands-on_ his experience of it had been, and whether the formidable Natasha had been his only tutor.)

 

For his part, Steve was wearing crisp tan chinos, brown penny loafers, and a blue gingham shirt, the sleeves carefully folded up to the elbows. He looked almost exactly as he would have seventy years ago—trouser cuffs were worn slightly longer now, waistlines slightly lower, but the essentials hadn’t changed.

 

She’d been to Central Park before—not that her previous experience counted for much. There was graffiti everywhere: some of it was quite lovely, if unintelligible, and much of it was plainly obscene. (Which, Peggy reflected wryly, summed up her thoughts on the modern world in general.)

 

Steve walked with purpose: he had a destination in mind, which turned out to be a large cherry blossom tree. He spread out a blanket in the shade, and they both sat down, a respectable distance apart.

 

“When I was in the cultural immersion program, I used to come here sometimes to study,” he told her.

 

It was a bright summer day, and the park was a popular destination; the whole world seemed to rush past them, loud and bright and alarmingly _fast_. Peggy couldn’t imagine being able to block all of it out with the level of concentration necessary to read a single word.

 

“It’s lovely,” she said distantly.

 

Steve started to pull food out of his rucksack: sandwiches, bottled drinks, packets of crisps, fruit in clear plastic boxes. She examined his profile, his head bent to the task, and thought about what it might be like to run her palm over the close-cropped bristles at the nape of his neck, or kiss the delicate scrollwork of his ear. How would he react—would he freeze, or startle and shy away? Or was this new world Steve Rogers a practiced hand at dealing with the advances of the women in his life?

 

“Hope you’re hungry,” he remarked, cheerfully oblivious to the turn her thoughts had taken.

 

“Ravenous,” she replied, in a husky voice that conveyed somewhat more enthusiasm than she’d intended.

 

Steve didn’t look up, but a faint blush coloured his cheeks. “I heard Pepper took you shopping,” he said. “Did she show you a grocery store?”

 

Peggy shook her head.

 

“The first time I went to one, it got a little out of hand. There was so much variety, and the packaging, the design of it is very alluring. The colours, the way it’s all arranged. A hundred different kinds of cold cereal alone—and I don’t even _like_ cold cereal.”

 

She understood exactly what he meant. The thought of all that choice was thrilling, but wearying at the same time. Especially when none of the choices were what you really wanted.

 

“I wasn’t sure what you’d like,” he continued, “but I figure this beats K-rations.” The corner of his mouth quirked in a grin.

 

Fruit was much larger than she remembered it, and not quite so flavourful. Fizzy lemonade was far too sweet, and tasted of something chemical.

 

Peggy felt sun-dazed, and the cloying smell of the cherry blossoms made her head feel as though it were about to burst. She couldn’t quite break free of the nagging feeling that she ought to be _doing_ something, that it was terribly wasteful of them to be outside picnicking in the middle of the day.

 

“When we were overseas, I used to daydream about doing this with you,” Steve was saying.

 

“Whatever for?” The words were out of her mouth the instant they’d formed in her brain. She hadn’t meant to sound critical—but the banality of the fantasy was so surprising. In her own daydreams about Steve, on the rare occasions when she’d permitted herself the luxury, the setting had been largely immaterial.

 

Steve’s body seemed to slacken, his broad shoulders folding inward; for just a moment, she caught a glimpse of the smaller man he’d once been. He shifted on the blanket, reached up and plucked a few petals off a branch overhead, scattering them to the wind.

 

All around them, people seemed to be exchanging easy caresses, taking pleasure in one another’s company. He was so close; it would have been such a small thing to reach out and touch his arm, to kiss his cheek, to wrap her arms around him. She had no doubt it was what an ordinary woman would do, a woman of this time. But she just sat there, limbs heavy as lead.

 

At length, she began, “It’s just all rather…” But _what_ it was, exactly, she couldn’t quite put into words.

 

Steve was drawing breath to reply when, out of the corner of her eye, Peggy caught sight of a black-and-white object hurtling towards them. She started and grabbed at Steve’s arm, trying to yank him out of the way, her heart going jackrabbit-quick—then felt incredibly foolish when the projectile, a football, glanced harmlessly off Steve’s shoulder.

 

A teenage boy was moving towards them at a loose-limbed canter, calling out, “Little help?” As he approached, Peggy could see that his t-shirt had Steve’s shield stencilled on the front.

 

Steve held out the ball, gripping it in one large hand. “Be a little more careful, son,” he cautioned, in a voice Peggy had only ever heard him use onstage.

 

“Whatever,” the boy retorted, snatching the ball back and jogging away.

 

Peggy realized she was still clutching at Steve’s sleeve. Mortified, she released it and settled herself on the blanket again. Steve watched her quietly for a long moment.

 

“You’re doing much better than I did my first time out,” he observed.

 

“What happened?”

 

“I went on a bit of a rampage when I first woke up.” He grinned ruefully. “Busted through a wall, smacked some guys around… caused quite a stir.”

 

“I imagine it would, yes.” She could picture it quite clearly; she’d had similar impulses upon waking, though not being able to stand or see had prevented her from having much of an impact.

 

He reached over and slowly, deliberately, freed a fallen blossom from her hair. “Let me know if it gets to be too much,” he said, tucking a few wayward strands behind her ear before lightly tracing the line of her jaw with his fingertips.

 

“I will,” she told him, and if her voice shook a little, it wasn’t only due to jangled nerves.

 

*

 

The sun was low in the sky by the time they arrived back at SHIELD. The city had already begun to transform, slipping from the hard clean lines of daytime into sparkling evening finery.

 

Rather than the main entrance to the medical wing, Steve walked her around to one of the side doors, where the foot traffic was less frequent. Peggy stood, toying aimlessly with the electronic pass card she’d been issued, and continued to chat with him for almost fifteen minutes.

 

She could tell by the way he was staring at her mouth that he was thinking along the same lines that she was. And thinking was marvellous, it really was—but it wasn’t quite in the same realm as _doing_.

 

“I had a lovely time today, Steve,” she prompted, stepping forward until her toes bumped the caps of his shoes.

 

He was nodding, a determined set to his square jaw.

 

“Thank you _so_ much for suggesting it,” she continued, in what she hoped was an encouraging tone.

 

“I’d like to kiss you now,” he told her earnestly. His “May I?” overlapped with her “Yes, please,” and then he was smiling even as he leaned down.

 

Their first kiss had been a frantic push, a last-ditch effort to tell him everything she had never been able to put into words. This, now, was Steve’s response: a gentle brush of his lips against hers, a squeeze of her trembling fingers. He kissed her once, softly and slowly; and then again, a quick peck that served to punctuate the statement.

 

It wasn’t quite the passionate embrace she’d been dreaming about—but then, there was time for that.

 

Steve said, somewhat incongruously, “Your outfit is nice. Really pretty. I should have mentioned it before now.”

 

“Better late than never,” Peggy replied, trying not to laugh.


	5. I Can Dream, Can't I?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE: The first part of this chapter contains a scene which may be triggering for a variety of reasons: non-con, character death (sort of) and general awfulness. If you think it might disturb you, please scroll to the first asterisk and start reading from there.
> 
> If there's another or a better way I can make this a safe reading experience for you, please let me know.
> 
> P.S. This story has a plot. I _promise_.

London lay in ruins: crumbled bricks, mortar dust, columns of ash. The invading aliens had been unexpected, unprecedented, and exceedingly thorough.

 

None of which mattered at present.

 

Her little room from before the war, above a seamstress shop, had miraculously survived the attack. It was furnished just the way she remembered it: scuffed chair, worn but workable vanity, stalwart brass bedstead. Simple, clean, comfortable.

 

She'd had a man in this bed before—saintliness had never been a virtue to which Peggy had aspired—but never _this_ man. And she’d waited too long for Steve Rogers to let a trifling thing like the end of the world stop her.

 

His skin was quite cool—from being in the ice, he explained, blushing from head to toe like a shy young bride. No matter; she would blanket him in kisses, envelop him in her warmth.

 

He tried to sit up, craned his neck to look out the window, dusky amber light filling his eyes.

 

“No,” she said sternly, red nails biting into his cheek as she turned his face away from the carnage. “Look at _me_.”

 

“Please—I need—” He couldn’t seem to find the words, but his hips stuttered against hers, lovers’ Morse code. She bent to kiss his open mouth, rocking into him in a way that left them both gasping, breathless. She moved slowly, murmuring encouragement as he gained the rhythm and the counterpoint.

 

Outside, Armageddon raged on, unheeded.

 

But his body was colder now, ice-cold. She could actually _see_ the chill growing and spreading through him—his skin turning pale, then paper-white, with a lattice of crisp white frost that fused them together anywhere they touched. Beads of perspiration glittered on his forehead and his throat; his mouth opened wide, its insides indecently red against his pale lips, but no sound came out. He gripped her tightly, holding her against him, impaling her on a shard of ice as sharp as a knife’s blade.

 

“Stop.” She struggled, tried to unseat herself, but his steely fingers clamped down on her hips. “Steve, it’s too—Steve, _don’t_.” Her palms were frozen to his chest—she could hear the flesh start to tear as she pulled away, an awful wet cracking noise.

 

His breath a puff of wintery air against her cheek, he whispered, “You won’t leave me again.”

 

And then his lips locked around hers and the room greyed out.

 

*  
  
Peggy considered writing down the details of the dream for her psychiatrist, but she knew he would focus on all the wrong parts. He would tell her that she wasn't dealing with her grief, that her feelings of guilt were unnecessary—or worse still, that she was some sort of repressed sex maniac. Either way, there would undoubtedly be more pills and more restrictions.

 

She knew that if she were subconsciously worried about going to bed with Steve, she would have dreamt of something unrelated and seemingly harmless, such as dentists or gardening. And the end of the world struck her as a perfectly natural and reasonable thing to be afraid of.

 

As for feeling guilty... she'd been partially responsible for closing his file; she'd refused to entertain any hope that he could still be alive, and she’d tried her damnedest to convince Howard that he ought to give up too. The fact that Steve apparently didn’t hold it against her was immaterial; she’d abandoned him to the merciless iron sea, and it was only by chance that he wasn’t there still.

 

There wasn’t anything to be done but grit her teeth and bear it.

 

She tossed and turned in the sweat-damp sheets for the better part of an hour before accepting the fact that she and sleep had parted company for the night.

 

Her scheduled workout time wasn’t for another ten hours, but she decided to live dangerously.

 

*

 

When Peggy arrived at the gymnasium, there was someone already there, despite the ungodly hour. She recognized the man from before, the one with the injured knee. He was seated, puffing and straining into a weighted leg extension. He was wearing shorts this time, revealing a black plastic contraption that encased his leg around the injured joint.

 

“It’s the nowhere man,” she remarked, walking past him to the treadmill. “Hello again.”

 

He whistled a few melancholy notes, then looked to her as if expecting approval. When none was forthcoming, he inquired, “Don’t like the beetles?”

 

Peggy glanced around her curiously, but the question appeared to have been an entirely academic one. “I like them fine,” she replied, “as long as they stay out of my larder. Why do you ask?”

 

He gaped at her in exaggerated disbelief. “ _Where_ are you from again?”

 

“Still London, I’m afraid.” She punched in the access code for her preprogrammed routine. The treadmill shifted and whirred into place, and she started walking at a brisk trot.

 

“You’re up late. Can’t sleep?”

 

“No,” she said, slightly too loudly, willing herself _not_ to think about ash and cinder and ice. “And you?”

 

“My regular time slot. Oh-three-hundred to oh-five-hundred.”

 

“How did you manage that?”

 

He gave a noncommittal shrug. “Unique circumstances.”

 

“You didn’t change it because of… anything in particular?” She recalled their last conversation, which had taken a couple of rather peculiar turns.

 

“Nah. You’re about the only person around here I _can_ turn my back on right now.”

 

Peggy composed her features, presenting a neutral expression. She had read about people like this—paranoiacs, they were called. They imagined themselves constantly pursued, watched, persecuted. One had to remember, after all, that one was in a long-term care ward. The poor man obviously had some deep-seated troubles. “That’s rather a grim assessment,” she observed.

 

“You really don’t know who I am, do you?”

 

“I’m sorry,” she said, because it was the polite thing to to say, even though he didn’t seem to consider it a drawback.

 

Neither of them spoke again immediately. Peggy focused on her jogging, which shifted into running, and wondered whether she ought to speak to her physical therapist about creating a program that was a little more challenging. She’d obviously outstripped the current one; she wasn’t even out of breath. She considered attempting to reprogram the machine, though she knew from previous experience that this was almost certainly bound to end in frustration.

 

She’d already entered her cool-down routine when the man asked, “Where were you during the attack on Manhattan?”

 

Peggy was caught off-guard—he’d been so quiet that she’d almost forgotten he was there. “Pardon?” she inquired.

 

“It’s one of those questions people ask when they’re making conversation. Like, where were you when JFK was shot? Or, where were you on 9/11?”

 

Peggy was far enough along with her reading to know exactly where she had been during both of those events—underground, forgotten, along with nineteen other girls. “I was asleep.”

 

“Uh huh.”

 

“Slept right through the whole affair,” she said, trying for a breezy tone.

 

He seemed to consider this, then nodded.

 

“I have friends who were there,” she admitted—and how strange it was, to realize that she thought of Howard’s insufferable son as a _friend_.

 

“Lots of people do.”

 

“Do you?”

 

He took a long pull of his water bottle before replying, “I don’t have many friends.” It wasn’t particularly morose or dramatic; a flat statement of fact.

 

“Frankly, I’m not surprised.” Peggy had very little patience for wallowing.

 

He narrowed his eyes at her, declaring, “You’re kind of a ball-buster.”

 

She nodded. “When it’s called for.”

 

“What did you say your name was?”

 

“I _didn’t_ say.”

 

“I know. What is it?”

 

“Perhaps I don’t have one.” After all, two could play at that game. “Perhaps I’ve only a number.”

 

“I am not a number,” he intoned, in a very credible English accent. “I am a free man.”

 

“A peculiar man,” she retorted. It probably wasn’t very sporting of her to make fun if he was genuinely sick, but Peggy honestly couldn’t tell whether he was having her on or not. It was as though they were speaking entirely different languages that happened to use the same words.

 

“I could say the same about you.”

 

“I suppose you could, but it would lead me to question your powers of observation,” she said dryly. “Do _you_ have a name, or shall I continue to think up insulting things to call you?”

 

He grinned; it lent a sort of rough-hewn handsomeness to his mismatched assortment of features. “Barton.” He watched her, warily, waiting for a sign of recognition, but the name wasn’t familiar. Nor had she expected it would be.

 

“Good man,” she encouraged, stepping off the treadmill and walking over to him. “Mine’s Carter.” She held out her hand; Barton didn’t hesitate before giving it a firm shake.

 

“And why are you here, exactly?”

 

She started to gather her things together, deflecting with, “I told you, I couldn’t sleep.”

 

“No, I mean—”

 

“I know what you meant. I think we’ll keep it at introductions for now. Have a lovely morning, Mr. Barton,” she added politely.

 

Barton watched her for a second, then nodded slowly. “You too.”

 

*

 

Peggy arrived back at her quarters to find Tony lounging in her chair. He was doing something with his tiny phone that apparently required a lot of attention.

 

“Nice shoes,” he said, without looking up. “Pepper has the same ones.”

 

“Yes.” She sat on the bed to unlace her cross-trainers, resisting the urge to hurl one at his smug face. “You’re up rather early.”

 

He grinned wolfishly. “I have a very persistent alarm clock.”

 

Peggy decided it was best if she didn’t unpack that particular comment.

 

“How might I help you?” she inquired, saccharine.

 

And then she saw them, on the windowsill beside him: a bouquet of the most luscious roses she’d ever seen, resting in a simple cut-glass vase. She supposed that flowers, like fruit, must have grown larger with the passage of time.

 

As she approached, she could tell that they still _smelled_ the same, at least—like a summer window box, like expensive dusting powder. Like home, a home that now only existed in her memory.

 

She finger-combed the entire arrangement surreptitiously, searching for a card or note, but there was nothing. “Was someone here for me?” she asked.

 

“Yeah, _me_ ,” said Tony irritably. “And I hope you like them because I’m done walking around with them. I swear to God, if one more receptionist says ‘Oh, Tony, for me?’ and giggles at me, I’m going to sucker-punch Rogers right in his star-spangled codpiece.”

 

“That seems excessive.” She regarded the flowers with renewed interest. “He sent these with you?”

 

Tony nodded. “It can take a while to get this stuff through security. Since I’m on the approved visitors list, he asked me to expedite the process.” Grinning, he added, “You and Steve-o must have had quite the reunion.”

 

“Thank you for bringing them,” said Peggy. She wondered why Steve hadn’t sent a message with the flowers. However, she wasn’t about to open herself up to further ridicule by asking any follow-up questions.

 

“I was coming by anyway. Had a meeting with Fury.”

 

“Fury? _Nicholas_ Fury?”

 

“You know him?”

 

“I met him once. I understand that he took over the command of Captain Rogers’ unit after he—afterwards.” Nick Fury had been part of another American experiment, a sort of red-headed stepchild of Project Rebirth, involving a French scientist who’d corresponded with Erskine during the early stages of his work. Peggy’s understanding was that the results hadn’t been as dramatic as Erskine’s, or as stable. But if Fury was still in the game, after all this time, they had to have been worth something. “What’s he doing now?”

 

“He’s the big cheese. Director of SHIELD.”

 

“Oh, I see. Good on him. Does he still have the…” She gestured to her eye.

 

Tony nodded. “In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king,” he intoned solemnly.

 

She smiled. Tony had obviously inherited Howard’s love of colourful aphorisms. She was learning, however, not to voice such comparisons aloud.

 

“He said he was going to be stopping by to see you at some point this week. I told him he should probably call ahead, because your dance card was full of handsome superheroes.”

 

Peggy rolled her eyes at the anachronism.

 

“Dance card? No?”

 

“Good try. Bit shy of the mark,” she said briskly. “But you say he’s coming to see me personally? That’s your doing, I suppose?”

 

“Not me, Aunt Peggy.”

 

She grimaced. “I’ve asked you before not to call me that. I’m not your father’s sister, I’m _certainly_ not old enough to be your aunt, and in point of fact, I want no part of you. I’m mystified as to why you keep turning up here when I’ve given you absolutely no encouragement to do so.”

 

He clapped a hand to his chest. “How can you be so heartless? I’m an _orphan_. Who’s going to cook me Thanksgiving dinner?”

 

“Idiot,” she said, not without a certain amount of fondness. “Why is he coming, then, if not because of you? You’re the only person I know who would have the director’s ear.”

 

“Aha. Not true. Your boyfriend has a pretty good grip on the other one.”

 

She felt her cheeks heating up, and tried to conceal her reaction by burying her face in the roses again. “Captain Rogers and I are _friends_.” It sounded weak, even in her own ears.

 

“Friends who send flowers?”

 

“You are aware that I’ve been in hospital? Don’t blame _him_ because _you_ happen to have deplorable manners.”

 

“Friends who kiss? He told me all about that, by the way.”

 

She raised her head and fixed him with her iciest glare. “He did no such thing.”

 

Tony shrugged, gleefully unrepentant. “Maybe not. But it took him about fifteen minutes to write this.” He produced a small white envelope from some inner jacket pocket and held it out with two fingers. “I didn’t read it. You’re welcome.”

 

She snatched the card from him and tucked it into the pocket of her sweater without opening it. She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to conceal anything—no one really cared, and it wasn’t as though she had a reputation to damage anymore. But she didn’t feel like sharing any part of Steve with whoever was behind those cameras. And Tony had a gift for exposing one’s vulnerable spots and making merciless sport of them—another trait he and his father had shared.

 

“I’m going to wash,” she told him, crossing the suite on a path to the bathroom. “You may do as you like. You will anyhow.” She didn’t feel a particularly pressing need to entertain him, given that he was uninvited and not overly attached to the rituals of common courtesy.

 

“So,” he said, stroking his goatee mock-thoughtfully. “Cap _does_ like women. I owe Pepper fifty bucks.”

 

He dodged with remarkable agility as the running shoe whizzed by his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I borrowed the line about dentists or gardening from D.L. Sayers. She was such a fan of quotation that I don't imagine she'd take it amiss. :)


	6. Careless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a possible (non-graphic) self-injury trigger in this chapter.

Peggy only half-expected that Tony would still be there when she’d finished her ablutions—he tended to come and go rather abruptly, dropping in whenever his rather hectic schedule permitted.

 

However, she was _not_ expecting to walk out of the bathroom and find an entirely new visitor seated in his chair.

 

Despite the fact that she hadn’t seen him in over sixty years, the interloper was easily recognizable: tall, long-limbed and lean, his close-cropped hair now completely shaved down to the scalp; good-looking, especially when he smiled, but with an air of menace that the years had only served to sharpen.

 

“Director,” she greeted.

 

“Ms. Carter.” As she approached, she could see that he had, in fact, aged, but only slightly. Nick Fury obviously still had a few tricks up his sleeve. “Stark had another appointment, but he asked me to thank you for your hospitality.”

 

Peggy felt quite certain Tony had said no such thing, but she nodded politely just the same. “He mentioned that you might stop by. I confess, I didn’t expect you quite so soon.”

 

“I had an opening. Hope your dance card isn't too full.”

 

She pretended to consider before allowing, “I might be able to spare a moment.”

 

“Nice flowers. Who are they from?”

 

After so many years working in intelligence, small talk invariably made her think of the code phrases she'd been drilled on when she got into the game: _Lovely weather we're having, isn’t it? Did you see a man on a bicycle pass this way? I adore the smell of roses, don't you? Have you change for a pound note?_

 

“Mr. Stark brought them,” she replied. The trick to a credible deceit, she'd learned, was to avoid actually lying whenever possible.

 

“Thoughtful of him not to trouble our security staff,” said Fury.

 

“Rather.” She wondered how much longer they were going to circle each other. Cheekily, she added, “I adore the smell of roses, don’t you?”

 

“Yes, but I prefer lilacs this time of year,” Fury shot back, using the traditional rejoinder.

 

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Director?” She leaned on the title ever so slightly, emphasizing the formality between them.

 

“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to visit you sooner,” he replied evenly, sidestepping the question entirely.

 

Peggy nodded. “I should imagine your schedule is rather densely populated.”

 

Fury stood to his full, imposing height. “Let’s take a walk.”

 

The tone was agreeable, but Peggy knew an order when she heard one.

 

*

 

Fury led her through a staging area that put her in mind of the SSR war room in London—though the maps and paper files had been replaced by screens and computer terminals, and green and brown wool uniforms exchanged for sleek grey, black, and navy jumpsuits. Everyone wore headsets and appeared to be carrying on independent conversations with thin air. A few of the operatives glanced at her curiously as she walked by, but for the most part she was consistently ignored. Occasionally, agents would approach Fury with documents for him to read (which he did using a flat, portable screen) and approve (which he did by means of a thumbprint scanner).

 

The director’s office was more utilitarian than Peggy had expected. In her day, the walls would have been lined with bookshelves and filing cabinets. Three of the four walls of Fury’s office were glass, imparting the feeling of being the inmate of a large terrarium; the wall directly behind his desk was entirely occupied by a computer screen, over which scenes of conflict played at varying speeds. Peggy was starting to learn that it was commonplace in this time to have screens running in the background, unobserved. She found it very distracting. Overall, Peggy felt keyed-up, nervy—she suspected it was lack of sleep that had her brain buzzing, though she’d stayed awake for much longer stretches during the war.

 

Fury tapped the glass surface of his desk, calling up a keypad. He made a few hand motions; the lights brightened, and the clear glass walls became more opaque.

 

“Something to drown your sorrows?” he offered, taking a bottle and two glasses out of a soundless drawer.

 

“I’m afraid my sorrows have developed a discomfiting habit.” She accepted the tumbler of amber liquid—she very much doubted her doctor would approve, but she thought it might settle her nerves. “They’ve learnt to swim.”

 

“Sorry to hear that.”

 

Peggy tilted her glass in his general direction and said, “Your health.” Fury reciprocated, and then she sipped her drink in silence, honey and smoke lingering on her tongue as she swallowed. She was hard-pressed to recall the last time she’d had decent scotch; as a rule, she preferred to cut it with a little water, but she certainly wasn’t about to make demands on the director’s hospitality.

 

She paused, the glass half-way to her mouth, as a familiar blue-and-white silhouette filled the screen behind Fury. Captain America appeared to be giving instructions to a group of firemen, pointing to a building in the near distance. The firemen wore the same expressions of awed deference she’d seen on soldiers who followed Steve during the war. In an instant, the setting had changed, and Steve was lifting the front end of an overturned car and helping terrified passengers to climb out through the shattered windscreen. Next, he scanned the skyline, a determined set to his jaw, watching the approach of a swarm of insect-like creatures on airborne chariots.

 

It had been a long time since she'd seen footage of Steve in the field; she'd almost forgotten how swift and graceful his movements could be. _Like a dancer_ , she thought, smiling to herself. While the new battle suit was a bit theatrical for her taste, she had to admit that it fit him beautifully.

 

"This isn’t happening now, is it?" she asked, wincing as Steve took a hit to the chest that propelled him into a nearby brick wall. Unfazed, he pushed off from the hole in the wall with his feet and launched himself towards the assailant at an inhuman speed.

 

Fury glanced over his shoulder, then turned back to her and shook his head. "These are from the recent incident in Manhattan. I have a team working on gathering and analyzing all of the visuals."

 

There was something very deliberate, Peggy thought, in the seating arrangements and the choice of viewing material. Nevertheless, she watched with renewed interest as isolated moments splashed across the screen in full colour: a sleeveless sniper on a rooftop, loosing a volley of arrows that exploded into brightly-coloured flares; a gigantic green-skinned creature leaping from one skyscraper to another, tearing through steel and crushing concrete to powder; a long-haired man, wearing armour and wielding an ornate hammer, soaring through the air completely unaided; a metallic burst of red and gold rocketing across the sky.

 

"Incident," repeated Peggy dryly, taking another drink. "Indeed."

 

The camera found Steve again, now with a smaller figure at his back. She moved too quickly to be seen clearly, but Peggy recognized the unusual copper hair. She didn’t have Steve’s raw power, but she was fast and precise, aiming herself like a projectile at the nearest enemy.

 

They fought as one, as extensions of each other, and there was something magnificent about it, something almost god-like. She must be like Steve, Peggy realized. Enhanced. Perfected.

 

“You've met Agent Romanoff,” said Fury. It wasn’t a question.

 

“Yes,” she replied neutrally. “I didn't realize she was...”

 

Peggy held her breath as Natasha took a running start and leapt onto Steve's shield, using the added momentum he provided to vault into the air and catch hold of one of the flying machines.

 

“Different program,” said Fury cryptically.

 

Onscreen, the red-and-gold blur was projecting a blue-white energy blast that completely vaporized a section of the invading horde. The camera tracked the brightly-coloured object across the sky until it halted in mid-air, hovering. It was only then that Peggy realized what—who—it was. Tony had referred to his armoured exploits in passing, but this was the first time she’d actually seen Iron Man in his element.

 

Not for the first time, she wished it were possible to go back and write Howard a letter: _You will have a son. Your time with him will be short. For heaven's sake, don't squander it._

 

“He's quite good,” she observed, as Iron Man executed a sharp turn in mid-air and dove towards a cluster of invaders.

 

“Almost as good as he thinks he is.”

 

Peggy could feel herself beginning to lose her temper—an odd reaction, given that she was in the habit of pitching similar insults at Tony every time they spoke. She retorted, “I had rather the same impression of you, the first time we met.”

 

Fury smirked. “Touché.” He reached into his desk, pulled out a thick manila folder, and handed it to her.

 

“What’s this?”

 

He tapped the front of the folder. “A little light reading.”

 

The folder, as it turned out, contained service records. She thumbed through the pages quickly, recognizing the faces of the Howling Commandos. “This information isn’t classified?” she inquired, unable to keep the reproach out of her voice.

 

Fury replied, “War’s been over a long time, Ms. Carter.”

 

His gravitas was impressive, for all that she doubted its authenticity.

 

*

 

The files made for interesting, if melancholy, reading. After returning to her room, Peggy spent the afternoon absorbed in contemplation of the crisp black-and-white pages—obvious facsimiles of the original documents. They were all there: Dernier, Dugan, Falsworth, Jones, Morita… Barnes’ file was missing, of course, but then, there wouldn’t have been any developments there.

 

She found it hard to read at first—not only because the subject matter was somewhat painful, but because her attention span was considerably lacking, and she couldn’t seem to sit still. She felt as though she’d been gulping down coffee all afternoon and was now suffering the miserable after-effects—except that she hadn’t touched a drop.

 

Despite a slow entry, Peggy became so engrossed in the files that the usual tap signaling the delivery of her evening meal caused her to jump out of her seat—and to bump the vase of flowers, which teetered before crashing spectacularly to the floor.

 

Cursing volubly, Peggy dumped the roses into the rubbish bin, and picked the glass out of the carpet as thoroughly as she could. Then she sullenly ate her cold dinner while continuing to read, pausing only briefly to dispose of her medications in the usual places. She found herself rereading the same lines over and over; she was unfocused, fractious, annoyed at herself for having been so careless with Steve’s gift.

 

Rather than trying to keep reading, she settled for paging through the photos that accompanied each file. There were dozens of them, ones she’d never even seen, and the process of reproducing images had improved exponentially since her time. She spent quite some time admiring a candid shot of Dernier with Steve; the latter had a grease pencil tucked behind his ear, and was peeking over the smaller man’s shoulder, raptly scrutinizing a cloth chart. Steve had been particularly enamoured of the rayon acetate maps—the ingenuity and artistry of them had appealed to his designer’s sensibilities. Peggy distinctly remembered a long walk through the snow, rendered somewhat more palatable by his animated nattering about the development of phosphorescent fabric and what that could mean for night-time operations.

 

A growing tension in her joints prompted Peggy to tear herself at last from her perusal of the files. She stood up, rolled her shoulders, and stretched her arms up over her head—then let out a sharp cry as pain lanced through her heel.

 

“Blast!” she exclaimed, hobbling across the room to her bed. If only she’d thought to buy slippers on her shopping trip, instead of a pile of useless frippery and a ludicrous dress that she would never dare to wear…

 

She pulled her foot up for a better look. It was strange—she wasn’t bleeding, but there were spots of fresh blood already soaking into the grey carpet. The sole of her foot didn’t appear to be perforated at all. She ran her fingers gingerly over the sore spot in her heel, pressing when she encountered an odd sort of lump under the skin.

 

Peggy pressed on it, then watched with a feeling of dull horror as a pebble of glass sliced through from underneath, breaking the skin like a cresting wave.

 

She dug out the glass with her fingernails; blood welled up, and the area stung for a moment, and then the skin closed and it was as though nothing had happened. No pain, no wound, flesh as soft and pink as a baby’s.

 

She’d seen this before, of course, but she’d certainly never expected to experience it personally.

 

She scraped and poked at the spot with her fingernails, trying in vain to break the skin again, but it was no use. After a moment’s consideration, she got up and walked into the bathroom, turning on the light and closing and locking the door. She moved swiftly; she knew from experience that she had only a short time to act before she was intercepted.

 

She set fresh towels on the counter and ran the cold tap. She took the razor out of the medicine cabinet, feeling her heart contract painfully as she turned it over in her hand. In a single, decisive stroke, she sliced the web of skin between her thumb and forefinger—a location that she knew from experience was likely to both bleed and sting a great deal. There was a brief moment of sharp pain; blood welled up and trickled into her palm, filling in the web of lines on her skin like a map drawn in red ink.

 

She shut her eyes against tears, and tried not to think of Steve and his particular fondness for maps.

 

When she looked again, the pain and the wound were both gone, though the blood remained pooled in her cupped hand, quickly drying. Rinsing her hand under the tap, she realized she’d made a critical error in not observing the process more closely. There wasn’t a lot of time; she would just have to try again, rather more emphatically.

 

It occurred to her that it was entirely possible that she’d gone round the bend, or that Barton’s paranoia was somehow contagious. She supposed she would know soon enough, either way.

 

Peggy held her breath as the blade bit into her wrist.


	7. Don't Fence Me In

Despite taking rather a dramatic turn, the rest of Peggy’s evening turned out to be somewhat anticlimactic.

 

She was, as she’d suspected, quickly apprehended by a flock of hospital staff. By this time, she had already swabbed up the majority of the blood with the towel and was calmly applying pressure and elevation. She didn’t resist or object to being taken into custody; having taken a decision, even one so potentially catastrophic, had given her a curious feeling of serenity.

 

She was escorted to the infirmary, where a young doctor disinfected and bandaged her wound. It was a clean cut, several inches long and quite deep; Peggy felt a measure of unseemly pride in her own efficiency.

 

After the work was complete, the doctor spoke to her, in what she assumed was meant to be a soothing tone. He assured her that her psychiatrist would visit in the morning, and asked her to promise that she would not try to harm herself again in the meantime. Once she agreed not to do so, she was transported to a place called the “quiet room.”

 

Here she was left, without any amusements or even such basic comforts as a blanket or pillows—only a hard, stale-smelling mattress, which was bolted to the floor. She was informed that if she made any further attempts to injure herself or others, she would be restrained.

 

They kept her in the quiet room for nine interminably dull hours, during which her arm itched relentlessly beneath the bandages. She could tell the wound was healing, or at least closing, but she didn’t dare look, in case her surveillants thought she was planning to renege on her promise. She lay perfectly still on her mattress, but didn’t sleep a wink; her body felt electrified, the blood singing in her veins. She felt ready, willing, and exceptionally able to storm an enemy stronghold single-handed or lead an offensive operation over a mountain range.

 

She waited as patiently as she could for a post-adrenaline crash, and the inevitable shaking and sweating that would follow—but these symptoms never appeared. At long last, morning broke, finding Peggy as wakeful and charged as ever.

 

Instead of her psychiatrist, however, it was a uniformed agent who came to fetch her from the cell.

 

The route they took was the same one she had walked before her reunion with Steve: she recognized each turn along the intricate maze of corridors, and the conference room with its observation mirrors and black paneled walls. This time, she took note along the way of various signs indicating emergency exits; one never knew when a hasty retreat might be in order.

 

Just like the first time, Steve was waiting, in uniform—but now, Tony and Nick Fury were present as well. Fury was seated at the head of the conference table, Steve and Tony occupying chairs across from one another.

 

Peggy wished that she’d been offered the chance to bathe, or at least to change her blood-stained clothes, before being thrown into what felt uncomfortably like an ambush. Nevertheless, she straightened her spine and levelled her most uncompromising gaze down at Fury. “I believe an explanation is due, Director.”

 

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Fury replied. “Have a seat, Ms. Carter.”

 

Peggy slid into the chair beside Steve. His restlessness was palpable: he kept both hands pressed flat against the table as if to stop himself from fidgeting, but beneath the table his knee was ticking like clockwork. He glanced down at the bandages on her wrist, his eyebrows drawn together in a way that made her heart ache. She looked away, steeling herself for the worst; she had no idea how much he knew about all of this, to what extent he’d been involved in the deception. It didn’t seem possible, and yet… here they were.

  
  
“You went off your medication,” said Fury, like a schoolmaster reprimanding a wayward pupil.

 

“Perhaps you ought to have told me what it was for,” she shot back. She paused to take a deep breath before adding, more calmly, “I trod on a piece of broken glass, and the results made me rather curious.”

 

Fury raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You expect me to believe that you had no idea?”

 

“No, of course I didn’t, and more the fool me for it. How long?”

 

“What?”

 

“The experiments, that’s bloody well _what_! How long have your lot been using me as a lab rat?”

 

Fury seemed momentarily nonplussed. Then, very slowly, he said, “Let’s put a pin in that for now.” He turned to Tony. “You said you had something?”

 

  
“I’ve been going through my dad’s old notes,” announced Tony, who seemed to have taken the view that they were all conducting a delightful academic exercise. “Nothing on Peggy, or Briar Rose, or anything from around that period. He must have shredded it—he was a little paranoid, nuts about secrecy. Don’t know _where_ he picked that up.” Here he gave an exaggerated glance in Fury’s direction. “But I ran the situation by Bruce over Skype. He had an interesting theory.”

  
  
“I don't suppose there's much point in copy-protecting the documents I send you,” said Fury.

  
  
“Don't suppose there is,” was Tony's cheerful reply. “So. Twenty candidates: all young, healthy, female, all given the same infusion of radiation. But somehow, only one survives the big sleep. How does that work?”

  
  
Peggy ignored the subtle knife-point of guilt twisting in her stomach.

 

“With the data you gave us, Bruce and I were only able to think of one variable that wasn’t accounted for. Now. I don't mean to be indelicate,” he began, in a tone that suggested he most certainly did mean to be exactly that, “but I'm assuming you were exposed to Steve's genetic material?”

  
  
They all turned to look in her direction, and Peggy realized the question was directed at her.

 

“I beg your pardon?” she inquired.

 

“The theory is that Abraham Erskine’s formula altered Steve’s DNA using a retrovirus, and accelerated the process with Vita-Rays,” Tony explained. “Bruce thinks that the virus might have still been active in Steve’s system for a while after the treatment. Any contact with his bodily fluids... you see where I’m going with this?”

 

Peggy racked her brain, trying to recall a time that Steve might have ever bled on her. None came immediately to mind—they hadn’t been in the field together frequently, and he’d rarely been seriously injured.

 

Steve’s expression altered very little, almost imperceptably, but Peggy had the distinct impression that he wanted to crawl under the conference table. “You’ve got the wrong idea,” he told Tony, quietly but unequivocally.

  
  
Peggy’s cheeks blazed as the implication caught up with her; she felt foolish for not having picked it up sooner. “ _Not_ that it is _any_ business of yours,” she said defiantly, “but I haven't been any more 'exposed to Steve’s genetic material' than anyone else in this room.”

  
  
“That isn't exactly true, either,” said Steve, still in the same low voice.

 

She swiveled in her seat to face him, and had already opened her mouth to ask what on _earth_ he was implying when he spoke again.

 

“That last time we saw each other?” he prompted. “We were in the car, and you…?” He gestured vaguely in the direction of his mouth.

 

“ _Oh_ ,” said Peggy, feeling as though she’d been struck. “But surely that—it was only a second…”

 

Steve didn’t say anything. He looked the way she felt: raw, defenseless.

 

  
Tony shouted, “Get it, Cap!” and held his hand up for a high five which went sadly unrequited. “And you too, Aunt Peggy,” he added.

 

Peggy shot Tony a dire look, which he ignored.

 

He began to reel off a seemingly interminable list of dates, the particulars of various government projects that had tried (and failed) to replicate the SSR’s success with Steve. Apparently, Tony’s contact was something of an expert in the field.

 

She felt sick with rage—at Tony for being so cavalier about the whole situation, at Fury for keeping her locked up and lying to her, at Steve for… well, there wasn’t a decent reason to be angry at Steve, not really, but that didn’t stop her.

 

A low but distinct crackling alerted her to the fact that she was gripping the armrests of her chair very tightly, enough so that they were on the verge of breaking. She let go and eased her hands into her lap.

 

Beside her, Steve appeared to be taking studious notes, until she glanced down and saw that he was actually making a list of names. The first name on the list was unfamiliar; the second was one she recognized as a girl who'd been on the USO tour. The next, _Helen Lorraine_ , rang a bell, but it took Peggy a moment to place it. When she did, she felt herself reddening slightly, knowing what name was likely to come next. Sure enough, there it was: _Margaret Carter_ , looking strange and formal in Steve's close, sloping handwriting. And after that, _Natasha Romanoff_. He scribbled a five-pointed star next to Natasha's name, then hastily covered the entire list with his forearm.

  
  
Peggy didn't know what the star meant, but she could hazard a guess.

 

Across the table, Tony paused for breath, and Fury seized his chance to regain control of the discussion.

 

“The medication was for your benefit, Ms. Carter. When you came out of hibernation, you were having problems adjusting to your enhanced abilities. There were some emotional outbursts, and your psychiatrist—”

 

“ _Sod_ my psychiatrist!” she exclaimed—acutely aware, even as it was happening, that shouting wasn’t exactly going to tip the scales in favour of her stopping treatment. “If I’ve had any ‘emotional outbursts,’ as you’ve put it, I would say they were appropriate to the circumstances. Wouldn’t you?”

 

“We need to get things under control and understand exactly what we’re dealing with here. I’m going to need you—both of you, actually—” here Fury indicated Peggy and Steve, “to report to the lab.”

 

“No,” said Steve—pleasantly enough, but with a hint of steel behind it.

 

Fury leaned in. “I don’t believe I heard you correctly, soldier.”

 

“No, _sir_.”

 

Tony, glancing up from his phone to spectate, looked impressed.

 

“Captain Rogers. You seem to be under the impression that I am making a suggestion.”

 

Steve shook his head emphatically. “You tried to trick me when I first woke up. You lied to my face about Phase 2. And you _knew_ about Agent Carter’s condition this whole time, and you never said a word to warn her—or me. You haven’t been on the level about a single damn thing since the day I met you, unless it was to your benefit. I think that all of us have reached the outside limits of our patience with you keeping us in the dark about information that’s relevant to our lives.”

 

Across the table, Tony was nodding vigorously.

 

“Besides…” One corner of Steve’s mouth quirked upward, a seditious little smirk that Peggy remembered all too well. “I hate needles.”

 

Fury impaled Steve with a glare before directing his gaze to Peggy. “Ms. Carter?”

 

“It’s true,” said Peggy solemnly, unable to resist the urge to twist the knife just a tiny bit. “He hates them.”

 

Tony smirked.

 

“I don’t have time for this,” Fury declared. “Rogers, you have somewhere to be. Stark—I don’t give a damn where you go, just get out.”

 

Neither man stood up. Then Tony opened his mouth to speak, which Peggy was almost certain would end in disaster.

 

“It’s all right, gents,” she said, with as much authority as she could muster. “I’m sure the director will be quite civil.”

 

The two men rose to their feet and walked out, Steve shooting her a concerned glance over his shoulder.

 

Once they were out of the room, Peggy said, “I’d like to see the project files. In full. I assume Howard Stark’s were not the only copies.” She didn’t feel that she was in any particular position to make demands, but Steve had seemed to think it was strategic to push back, and she trusted his judgement enough to carry the offensive in his absence.

 

Fury cautioned, “They’re fairly technical.”

  
  
“That's quite all right,” she said, keeping her tone amicable. “I do have some medical training. And I happen to be acquainted with a rather bright engineer who can help me along. I'd like to make sure there aren't any more delightful surprises in store.”

 

“I’ll see what I can do.”

 

“Smashing. Now,” Peggy rested her elbows on the conference table and leaned forward. “When am I to be released?”

 

“You’re not a prisoner.”

 

“Just so. And that means I can leave any time I please? Because my doctors seem to think otherwise.”

 

“Your doctors are a little concerned about the fact that you attempted suicide last night.”

 

“You and I both know that was _not_ what happened.”

 

“Ms. Carter. Regardless of your… delicate mental state… a person living in the real world needs identification. Citizenship documents, social security number, that kind of thing. It’s not in your best interests for SHIELD to cut you loose without a place to live or any means of supporting yourself.”

 

“And you’ll be providing all of that for me?”

 

“That’s assuming a lot.”

 

“Oh, I never assume,” said Peggy blithely. “That’s why I asked.”

 

It was the first time she’d seen the director looking less than perfectly composed. “Any other demands?” he asked, with exaggerated deference.

 

“Yes, now that you mention it. I’d like to go to school. Like Captain Rogers did.”

 

“SHIELD was willing to invest in Captain Rogers’ education because he was a valuable tactical asset. You, on the other hand, are a pain in my—”

 

She held up a hand for silence—and to her surprise, Fury actually stopped speaking. “As flattering as I’m sure that statement would have been, Director, I think we can take it as read. Once I’ve seen the project files, I’ll report to the lab. Quid pro quo.” The idea made her skin crawl, but there didn’t seem to be any other way of getting the support she would need.

 

Fury said, “I think we’re done here.”

 

She waited. He looked at her expectantly.

 

“Aren’t you going to call your staff to collect me?” She knew the way, of course, but it was in her best interests not to lay all her cards on the table.

 

“Like I said, Ms. Carter… you’re not a prisoner. And you seem determined to ignore whatever advice I or my staff have to offer.” Fury bared his teeth in a humourless approximation of a smile. “Find your own damn way back.”

 

*

 

When she emerged, Steve was waiting—shoulders jammed against the wall as though holding it up, hands fisted in his pockets, eyes wary.

 

She knew she looked a sight, and had to resist the urge to tug compulsively at the front of her sweater.  


 

"What's the verdict?" he asked. "Should I be asking for a blindfold and a cigarette?"  


 

"You wouldn’t know which end to smoke if they offered you one."  


 

Her barb had the desired effect: his spine slackened a little, and he grinned ruefully. "If we're in that deep, I might as well learn."  


 

"I've had worse,” she informed him, squaring her shoulders. “He never once made reference to the natural deficiencies of my gender.”

 

Steve nodded. “That kind of argument has gone out of style a little.”

 

“I’ve asked to see the project files.”

 

“What’d Fury say to that?”

 

“He grumbled a bit, and turned a rather attractive shade of purple. But I think he’ll come round.”

 

Steve whistled.

 

“I did say I’d let them run their tests. Fair play, and all that.”

 

  
He nodded. "What about the medication?"

  
  
"Absolutely not. I'm off it now, and I haven't hurt anyone."

  
  
He looked down at her bandaged wrist pointedly.

  
  
She huffed. "I had to know, Steve. You’d have done the same, in my place."

  
  
He frowned, but didn’t contradict her statement.

 

“Besides,” she continued, pushing up her sleeve and peeling off the bandage, “it’s as though it never happened. See?”

 

He leaned in for a closer look. “How did it feel?” he asked, cradling her hand gently in his. “While it was healing, I mean.”

 

“Dreadful. Like insects crawling under my skin.”

 

He nodded thoughtfully, and she held her breath as he ran the tips of his fingers lightly over the soft underside of her wrist.

 

Reasoning that she may as well take advantage of her new-found liberty, Peggy asked, “Will you see me back to my quarters?”

 

He dropped her hand and moved a half-step away. “Actually, I—I have to run. They’re flying me to D.C.,” he told her, sounding harassed. “There's a... we're getting medals, for the thing in Manhattan. I'm accepting on behalf of the team. I get to meet the President.” He said it in the same tone most people would use to announce they were having exploratory dental surgery.  


 

“Quite an honour.” She tried not to laugh. It was precisely the sort of situation Steve had handily managed to avoid during the war; now, however, he didn't have the Atlantic or HYDRA as an excuse.

 

“I just wanted to... did you get my card?”  


 

Peggy had forgotten about it. She pulled the envelope from the pocket of her cardigan and started to tear at a corner.  


 

Steve rubbed compulsively at the back of his neck, looking mortified.  


 

"They were lovely," she said. "The flowers. Thank you."

 

"Don't mention it."

 

The outside of the printed card was fairly generic: a watercolour painting of chrysanthemums on a white background, “Thinking of you” written in flowing script overtop.

 

Inside was a drawing, done in blue biro: a boyish, cartoon version of Steve, brandishing a fistful of flowers at a girl that she supposed must be the corresponding version of herself. Looking closer, she noted that he’d managed to capture all the details of the outfit she’d worn on their date. The little Steve looked down at his shoes and grinned bashfully, crosshatched spots of colour on both cheeks. The little Peggy smiled at him, her dark eyes wide and fringed by thick lashes, her lips a perfect Cupid’s bow.

 

Underneath the sketch, he’d written, _I had a nice time yesterday. I hope you did too. Looking forward to our next visit. P.S. Please ignore anything that Tony says about it._

 

When she glanced up, Steve gave her a pained sort of smile. She could see why he was embarrassed; already it seemed as though the outing in the park had been part of another lifetime, and the drawing betrayed an irrepressible idealism that hadn’t been tarnished by the war or anything that came after.

 

“You still draw,” she observed.

 

He nodded.

 

“You called me ‘Agent Carter,’ earlier.” It wasn’t what she’d intended to say, at all, and it caught both of them off-guard.

 

“Did I?”

 

“You did. Is that still how you think of me?”

 

He dropped his gaze. “Guess I forgot.”

 

“It’s quite all right.” She placed a hand on his arm, lightly, and they exchanged smiles.

 

The rubber soles of her running shoes squeaked against the polished floor as she stood on her toes. She was aiming for his cheek, but at the last second, Steve glanced up unexpectedly, and her lips brushed against his chin.

 

“You could warn a guy,” he murmured, his colour rising. He leaned down, with definite intent, then quickly shied back as a herd of uniformed field agents rounded the corner and passed them. They were too well-schooled to stare, but it was nonetheless obvious that Steve had been made.

 

Peggy couldn’t quite suppress a frustrated sigh. “I suppose this isn’t really the time or place.”

 

“Yeah, you need to start picking your moments a little better,” he chided, mock-solemn.

 

She canted her head and peered around Steve’s shoulder. The field agents were clustered at the far end of the hallway, chatting and observing them surreptitiously. She waited, but it was obvious they weren’t going anywhere.

 

“Go on, Captain,” she said, patting Steve’s chest gently. “Don’t miss your flight.”


	8. You Always Hurt the One You Love

Before going back to her room, Peggy took the opportunity to explore a little more around the SHIELD campus. Not that she was able to get far; passcards and fingerprint scanners barred her from anything that looked even remotely intriguing, and her clothes clearly marked her as a civilian outsider.

 

At length, she made her way back to the medical wing and to her own drab corridor, reasoning that she’d eat, then go for a run and work off a bit of her nervous energy.

 

Tony was sprawled in a chair outside the door to her quarters.

 

“Fancy seeing you here, Mr. Stark.” She tried to move past him into her room, but he stretched his leg across the doorway, wedging his heel tight against the jamb.

 

“You missed lunch,” he informed her. “Dodged a bullet, too. Lime Jell-O.” He feigned a delicate shudder.

 

Peggy’s empty stomach disagreed noisily with his assessment. She hadn’t been given breakfast in the quiet room.

 

“The cafeteria, then, I suppose.”

 

“How about somewhere without plastic trays?” He flashed her a roguish grin. “Dare to dream, Aunt Peggy.”

 

“I’m not dressed for fine dining,” she said, indicating her blood-spattered cardigan.

 

Tony gave a dismissive wave. “You’re fine, you look fine. Overall I’d say at least… six out of ten.”

 

“Was there something you wanted? Besides a slap?”

 

“I want to take you to lunch. Somewhere with a little more ambiance.” His eyes flicked upwards, presumably to wherever the surveillance cameras were located.

 

“I haven’t got a day pass.”

 

“Word on the street is, you’re not a prisoner here.”

 

Peggy suddenly found herself rather keen to test the limits of that statement. She nodded. “Right. Give me half a tick to change.”

 

*

 

Sure enough, Peggy was able to walk out of the hospital wing and right off the SHIELD campus without anyone so much as batting an eyelash. Curiouser and curiouser.

 

Tony’s car was small, fast, and expensive-looking, with vanity license plates. His idea of “daring to dream” turned out to be a herd of brightly-coloured food trucks clustered near the south end of Central Park. Tony took particular delight in pointing out an establishment peddling fish and chips; Peggy ignored this very poor attempt at humour, and told him to run along and buy her a hot dog.

 

While she waited, she took in her surroundings: concrete and foliage, an expanse of hot blue sky, a damp and oppressive warmth rising from the street. The air was muggy, and heavy with cooking oil; Peggy could almost feel it settling in a fine film on her skin.

 

The corner was doing a brisk trade: a gaggle of sightseers, chattering excitedly and toting large, complicated-looking camera equipment; a pair of gently perspiring women, trotting in place, wearing garishly bright undergarments and exercise shoes; enough men and women in business apparel to enable Tony and his charcoal suit to blend in. Peggy paid particular interest to the businesswomen, trying to pick out which ones would be considered well-dressed to a modern observer. She herself was wearing a smart navy pencil dress with white nautical trim—having foolishly believed that Tony might actually take her to a restaurant.

 

The crowds didn’t put her on edge quite as much as they had the first time in the park, though she still felt more exposed than she would have liked.

 

Tony returned with a monstrous creation smothered in onions and cheese and what appeared to be several sauces. It required both hands to hold and considerable concentration to eat.

 

“I expected tables, at the very least,” said Peggy, making no effort to hide her disapproval. He hadn’t even brought her any napkins; did he expect her to wipe her hands on her clothes?

 

Tony had his head down, both thumbs tapping the clear screen of his phone repeatedly. “I never said tables. I said _ambiance_.”

 

“I know it’s a towering inconvenience, but shall we look each other in the eye while we talk?”

 

“I am looking at you,” said Tony, still typing.

 

As it was fruitless to argue, Peggy took a bite of her hot dog, cupping a hand under her chin to avoid spilling on herself. Granted, it had been a very long time since she’d had one, but she had to admit, it was an exceptional specimen of the breed—the meat perfectly spiced, the bread soft and warm.

 

After taking a moment to chew and swallow, she asked, “Am I correct in inferring that you bugged the conference room?”

 

Tony grinned. “You should just take it for granted that I’m all-seeing and all-knowing. Think of me as a minor deity. Or Skynet.”

 

Peggy didn’t know who Skynet was, but it was fairly safe to assume that he or she was irrelevant to the current discussion. She took another bite before inquiring, “Well? What’s your assessment?”

 

“That you somehow found a place in that dress to hide your balls of steel?”

 

“Your assessment of the _situation_ ,” she said impatiently.

 

“He’s not going to show you the files.”

 

“Of course not. But whatever he _does_ show me will be telling.”

 

Peggy happened to glance to her left, and spotted a familiar willowy form in a crisp white outfit striding towards them.

 

“You should have told me we were expecting a third for lunch,” she chided.

 

Tony immediately straightened up, pocketed his phone, and turned to follow Peggy’s line of sight. He was smiling—not the smirk or sly grin she’d grown to expect from Tony, but a warm, unguarded smile, one that made his face look ten years younger. He waved to Pepper, who waved back, her pace increasing slightly.

 

Pepper greeted Peggy first. “Nice dress,” she said, delighted. The outfit was, of course, one of the ones Pepper had helped her choose.

 

“Yes, I think I look rather well.” Peggy struck a pose. “Despite having scored a six out of ten for effort earlier.”

 

Pepper cut her eyes at Tony.

 

“Okay, there’s context—”

 

She ignored him. “That looks amazing,” she said, indicating Peggy’s hot dog.

 

“It’s quite good,” Peggy affirmed, and continued to eat. She was far too hungry to stand on ceremony—and, in any event, she wasn’t sure of the appropriate etiquette for street-corner dining. She suspected Emily Post would have had little to say on the subject.

 

“You want one?” Tony was asking, his wallet already in his hand.

 

Pepper stilled him with a light touch on his arm. “White suit. Mayor’s office.”

 

“Hold the ketchup?”

 

She shook her head. “I have to get going. 7th is a parking lot. Remind me never to get a job as a courier.” She pulled a bulky tan envelope out of her handbag and put it in Tony’s free hand.

 

“At least let me get you a coffee, an ice cream, a shot of bourbon, something.”

 

“Green tea?”

 

Tony looked pained.

 

“Never mind,” said Pepper, amused.

 

He sighed dramatically and stalked off towards the row of food trucks.

 

Peggy, who had been observing the exchange with interest, must have given a curious look, because Pepper was quick to assure her, “They don’t really have liquor.”

 

“Ah.” Peggy carefully placed her empty hot dog wrapper on top of the pile overflowing from the nearest bin. “Why are you going to the mayor’s office?”

 

“The city wants to use Stark Tower to host a press event. I’m trying to leverage it so that we get a share of the spotlight as well. I want to talk about our clean energy initiative, and about the contributions we’ve made to the Manhattan renewal.” Pepper reached into her purse again, pulled something out of a packet, and offered it to Peggy. The item in question turned out to be a sort of wet paper towel, which Peggy correctly deduced was to clean her face and hands. It dried quickly, and had a scent like lemon furniture polish.

 

“Tony certainly keeps you busy,” she observed.

 

Pepper smiled patiently. “Actually, I’m the Chief Executive Officer, and he’s the Chief Technology Officer. We keep each other busy.”

 

“Oh, I see.” After their last meeting, Peggy had surmised that Pepper was some sort of personal secretary—which was an absolutely shameful assumption, particularly given the source. “I _am_ sorry.”

 

Pepper shook her head. “It’s fine.” After a pause, she added, “It sounds like this morning was a little tense.”

 

Peggy nodded.

 

“If there’s ever anything I can do to help…” Pepper reached into her handbag and pulled out a business card. The front of the card was black, embossed with the Stark Industries logo in metallic blue ink, as well as Pepper’s name and title. Pepper flipped the card over to the white side and scribbled a series of numbers before handing it to Peggy. “That’s my home number, and my cell phone. The one on the front is the receptionist at my office, she’ll find me if you tell her it’s urgent. And I’m… not affiliated with SHIELD in any way. In case you were wondering.”

 

The card had rounded corners, and was printed on stock that felt velvety to the touch. Peggy rubbed it between her thumb and index finger. “Thank you.”

 

“A little flashy, I know,” said Pepper, her lips twisting in a displeased little moue. “Not my idea.” She shot an exasperated glance in Tony’s direction, but Peggy sensed that it was mostly for show.

 

Tony, meanwhile, was attempting to wade through a cluster of children who seemed to be engaged in a protracted shouting competition. A few of them were clutching at his jacket, and one particularly ambitious young man was making an attempt to scale him.

 

Tony said something that caused the shouts to galvanize into shrieks—the meaning of which became clear as he extracted some bills from his wallet and thrust them in the direction of an ice cream vendor, who immediately began handing out frozen confections to the elated youngsters.

 

Having thus neatly divested himself of his admirers, Tony strolled over to them with a steaming paper cup in one hand and a large chocolate ice cream in the other, the envelope tucked under his arm.

 

“What happened to that whole ‘balanced meal’ thing you were trying out?” Pepper inquired.

 

Tony gave a noncommittal grunt and handed her the tea.

 

“Thank you,” said Pepper graciously. Turning to Peggy, she said, “I have to run, but—”

 

“Hey. Hey.” Tony was suddenly animated—bouncing on the balls of his feet, pointing and snapping his fingers in Pepper’s general direction. “I’m taking you two to dinner tonight.”

 

“Tony…”

 

“Oh, yeah. This is happening. We’ll come and get you after the thing. We can all go to a real restaurant. With tables,” he nodded at Peggy, “and martinis.” This last was apparently meant for Pepper. “You can both have one of each.”

 

“I can’t tonight,” said Pepper. “Another time.”

 

“No, no. No other time. This is the _only_ time—”

 

“I’m sorry, I really can’t,” she said. Her tone was friendly enough, but there were small changes in her face—a hardness around the mouth, a slight narrowing of the eyes—that signaled her growing annoyance.

 

Heedless of the warning flags, Tony forged onward with, “Pepper—”

 

“I said _no_. Could we please not do this right now?” Her gaze was steely.

 

Everything about Tony stopped cold. “Fine,” he snapped. “No problem.” His body was tense, closed off. Peggy was reminded of the last time she’d spoken with Howard—the hooded eyes, the sharpening of the shoulders. His face when she’d called the notion of his being in love with her ‘ridiculous.’ That was what she was looking at, she realized: a rejection that went far deeper than a simple dinner invitation. “Pretty sure Fury's out digging an unmarked grave for both of us right now, but okay. You've got stuff going on.”

 

Pepper winced.

 

“You don’t honestly believe he does his own digging?” asked Peggy, feigning carelessness.

 

The comment served to remind Pepper and Tony of Peggy’s presence. They both became horribly polite:

 

“Thanks for the…”

 

“Yeah, do you—”

 

“Can you—sorry.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Go ahead?”

 

“Never mind. Go take down City Hall.” He bared his teeth, but there was no humour in it. “You got this, Potts.”

 

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” said Pepper.

 

Tony shrugged, as if to say that he neither expected nor required it of her.

 

Turning to Peggy, she added, “We’ll see each other again, very soon. I promise.”

 

“I look forward to it.”

 

As soon as Pepper had reached the end of the block and rounded the corner, Tony announced, “Come on. Steve’s waiting for us on the other side of the park.”

 

Peggy looked at him suspiciously, wondering what the devil he was playing at. “He told me he was going out of town.”

 

“Oh, he’s there,” said Tony, adding cryptically, “whether he wants to be or not.”

 

*

 

The statue was one Peggy hadn’t seen before: an impassive stone colossus, en pointe at the top of a cairn of cement and rounded stones. There was a plaque, but she didn’t bother to read it; she knew through long experience that it would be oppressively fulsome, and contain the words “heroic” and “sacrifice.” The figure looked rather foolish, in full battle dress but with its helmet tucked under its arm and its shield resting at its feet; she supposed it was meant to give the impression that the slings and arrows of war were of little consequence to such a godlike being as Captain America—or, perhaps, that there was no use defending one’s self against the onslaught of destiny.

 

On her date with Steve, when he’d given her a tour of the park, he’d avoided this part of it. She could see why. There were very few people about—which may have had something to do with the green-and-white signs designating the area as a “quiet zone.” The concrete square around the statue felt uncomfortably like a shrine.

 

Overhead, flat clouds pooled across the surface of the sky, casting visible shadows over the manicured grass and stone. Peggy could almost imagine that the clouds were ice floes, and that she was drifting, cold and aimless, across an ocean floor, pausing only to observe the peculiar ruins of some lost antique civilization.

 

She was beginning to tire of Tony’s sense of humour, or his perversity, or whatever it might be that drove him to plague her with things like this. “I’ve had my fill of sightseeing,” she told him. “I’d like to go back now.”

 

“I think you mean, you’d like to sit in the park and read.” He put the envelope into her hands. She noticed for the first time that her name was scrawled across the front of it. It had been opened.

 

Peggy slid her hand inside the envelope and pulled out a stack of brown folders, the cardboard limp with age. All of them were stamped ‘TOP SECRET’ in red ink. She recognized the SSR’s logo, and the date, and Howard’s decisive handwriting.

 

“I thought you said your father had destroyed these.”

 

“That wasn’t strictly accurate.” Tony smirked. “I figured you could use some traction.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

He jammed his hands into his pockets and stepped away from her. “I’m gonna take a lap around the reservoir. Give you and Cap some private time.”

 

Peggy sat on a nearby bench, opened the first folder, and began to read.

 

*

  
The files were highly technical, and there were a few sections that had been blacked out, but there were three terms she recognized immediately: “Vita-Rays,” “proprietary technology,” and “Stark Industries.”

 

The more she read, the clearer it became: the goal of Briar Rose had never been space travel.

 

American intelligence had indicated (Peggy knew this part) that the Soviets had been working on suspended animation since the late 1920s. At the tail end of the war (this part was news to her) Russian scientists had succeeded in creating a cadre of highly-trained female assassins, keeping the girls on ice and waking them only when their particular talents were required. These were women without names, sirens of nightfall dispatched for the purpose of harvesting ripe secrets, be it in the streets or in the sheets.

 

Briar Rose had been the Americans’ attempt to reciprocate—taking a group of young women and treating them with the same cocktail of radiation that had given birth to Captain America. Like the Soviets, they planned to keep the operatives in stasis until they were needed, briefing them only insofar as was absolutely necessary to get the job done. Candidates had been chosen based on the espionage work they’d done during the war, as well as their individual skill sets and physical fitness. Peggy was chagrined to note that looks had played a part as well; the physical description for Subject 13 read, “Dark but quite handsome, could easily pass for Russian. Voluptuous body type.”

 

Howard had been confident in his procedure: a low, pulsing dose of Vita-Rays over a period of months, rather than a concentrated saturation. But he’d gotten it completely backwards—without Dr. Erskine’s serum to initiate transformation, the subjects had been non-reactive. The project was shelved, to be revisited at a later date, with no further thought to the young women who had given their lives for this mad endeavour. By the time the Cold War had drawn to a close, they’d been all but forgotten.

 

But someone had obviously kept them in his thoughts.

 

 _Goddamn you, Howard,_ she thought, closing her eyes against tears of anger.

 

This was what it had all come down to, in the end: not the promise of a brave new frontier, but a man desperate to recreate a lost success, and a government spooked by the threat of nuclear war. Twenty women’s lives in the balance. And she had survived—not through any exceptional amount of strength, or character, but because of one single, impulsive moment. Because she hadn’t wanted Steve Rogers to die without knowing she cared for him.

 

Tony had reappeared when she was about halfway through the files. Showing more tact than she would have given him credit for, he didn’t speak the moment she’d finished reading; he sat beside her on the bench for quite some time before either of them spoke.

 

“You never asked me how I found you,” he said.

 

“Because _I_ found _you_. I asked to see you, as soon as I found out who you were. I assumed my doctor had—”

 

Tony shook his head. “I don’t think Fury wanted anyone to know you were there. I think he would have tried to feed you some bullshit, same as he did with Steve.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Steve didn’t tell you? Fury faked him out. SHIELD built a replica of a hospital room, tried to convince him it was still the 1940s. When that didn’t work, they told him that all his old war buddies were dead—including you.”

 

Peggy felt a chill seep into her bones, and looked back at the stone effigy again. There was very little of Steve Rogers about it: no one who had ever seen him run could have envisioned him standing so awkwardly, and no one who had ever seen him smile could have made his mouth look so spare and grim.

 

She thought about when she’d first awakened, the knowledge that she was completely alone in an alien world. Steve had lived like that for over a year—in a place where his “death” had become part of the collective memory, and he himself was a cultural artifact. Peggy, at least, had the advantage of her anonymity.

 

“Fury had a file on you that said you were MIA, presumed dead. I saw it myself. The only reason I knew something was fishy was because of the bequest.” He gazed off into the middle distance. “I was looking at getting my affairs in order, and I found the safe deposit box Howard had set up in your name. I got a little curious. He left you a lot of money, you know.”

 

“Sod it,” Peggy spat.

 

“I get where you’re coming from—and believe me, no one is more in favour of sticking it to the old man than I am. But college isn’t cheap.”

 

Peggy said nothing. They were both staring up at the statue now, and Peggy suddenly, ardently wished that she could scratch out its lifeless eyes. She wondered if it might not be possible, now—whether her strength was really comparable to Steve’s.

 

“This one’s better than the one in Brooklyn,” said Tony. “That one’s holding a flag and looks like he might cry about it. This one just looks constipated.”

 

“They did get the hands right,” Peggy conceded.

 

Tony’s eyebrows leapt.

 

“Spare me,” she said archly. “I’ve had quite enough of you and your _theories_ for one day.”

 

“Hey, don’t blame me, blame inductive reasoning. How was I supposed to know you and Steve never made the beast with two backs? You two obviously had a thing, and he doesn’t strike me as the type who brags. Maybe you wanted a last hurrah.” He sounded strangely bitter. Peggy couldn’t tell where it was coming from.

 

“It was one kiss. I thought I was sending him to his death,” she said, very quietly.

 

“But now that he’s alive, the romance is gone?” Tony turned sharply towards her; his face was flushed, distorted by anger. “You only wanted him because he wasn’t guaranteed to be around for long, is that it? Or do you just get off on—”

 

The noise of the slap she gave him resounded satisfyingly. Peggy supposed that it must be all the concrete; more trees would have muffled the echo. Her palm stung, but only for a second.

 

“Yep,” said Tony, surprisingly amenable. “Okay.” There was a red mark blooming across his cheekbone.

 

“Count yourself lucky,” she said severely. “I’ve knocked men unconscious for less.” She knew it hadn’t really been _her_ he was railing against, but that still didn’t give him the right. “If you _ever_ speak to me that way again—”

 

He nodded, a hand cupped over his jaw. “Got it.”

 

“You aren’t seriously hurt?”

 

“I’ve had worse.” Something about the way he said it made Peggy think that he wasn’t talking about his superhero exploits.

 

“When you said you were getting your affairs in order…”

 

“Oh yeah, okay,” he said airily. “I found a grey hair one morning, and I panicked and started estate planning.”

 

Peggy looked at him steadily and said, “I don’t believe a single word of that.”

 

Tony smirked, stroking the short hairs at his temple. “I know, right? My stylist is some kind of savant.”

 

She wanted to say something else. An apology, perhaps, for all the times that she’d told him how like his father he was; or else, an expression of regret for whatever made Tony feel as though he needed to arm himself against the entire world, and lash out at those he cared for. Because she knew that feeling, all too well: the bitter kernel of doubt that sat in the pit of one’s stomach, the savage impulse to strike before one could be struck. And the people who were invariably struck hardest were the ones who deserved it least.

 

Instead of saying any of this, Peggy made the small concession of being completely honest.

 

“I’m not sure whether I want to go to school or not,” she told him. “I only said that to vex Fury. I’ve no idea what I ought to do.” Quietly, she added, “I don’t know how to live in this world of yours.”

 

Tony bumped her shoulder affectionately with his. “Then you’ll fit right in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been to Central Park only once in my whole life, so the details are approximate and largely not relevant.


	9. I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire

After parking his car in the fire lane outside of SHIELD, Tony dug into his pocket and handed Peggy no less than five of his own black Stark Industries business cards.

 

She protested that one would suffice, but he insisted: “It’s too easy to lose track of things nowadays. Better to have backups.”

 

“Hm.” Peggy didn’t doubt that it was easy for Tony, who’d never experienced the excruciating privation of rationing, to lose track of his material possessions.

 

Unlike Pepper’s card, there was no title under the name—the cards simply read _Tony Stark—_ andrather than jotting a private number on the back, Tony had done a series of aimless scribbles. Howard had been an inveterate doodler, too; it had always struck Peggy as being rather contrary to his character, as he was always meticulously neat about his possessions and his person.

 

Peggy tucked the cards carefully into her pocket-book. “Thank you for lunch.”

 

“Next time, tables and napkins.”

 

She examined his face and noted, with a twinge of unease, that the bruise on his cheek was still flowering. “That needs ice,” she told him.

 

He smirked; it was an expression he often used, she’d noticed, when trying to mask more subtle displays of emotion. “I bet you’ve got a hell of a right cross.”

 

“I’d offer to kiss it better, but I’ve learnt that invariably gets me into trouble,” she teased.

 

“I don’t think being an asshole is contagious.” He shrugged. “Though it is probably genetic.”

 

“I doubt that.” She deliberated a moment, then reached over and patted the back of his hand lightly. “I knew Howard. I fought alongside him. I believe his intentions were good, at least at the start. And you remind me of him, in many ways. But I see now that the two of you are quite different.”

 

Tony glanced away, and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Peggy wondered whether touching him had been a miscalculation on her part, and drew her hand back.

 

“You think I don’t have good intentions?”

 

“Quite the opposite. I think you hold yourself to an exacting standard. I’d like to say you get that from me—except that we’re not _actually_ blood relatives, so it doesn’t quite follow. I believe that you would rather try, and fail, than compromise your ideals in order to succeed. And there is absolutely nothing wrong in that. After all, why bother to have ideals if you won’t stick to them?”

 

“Wait.” He threw a glance at her. “Are you giving me a _pep talk_?”

 

“That was rather the point, yes.”

 

“It’s a nice thought, but here’s where you’re wrong: Howard was all about ideals. He was the original idealist.” She’d noticed that Tony had the habit of referring to his father by his first name when discussing the myth rather than the man. “He never did anything that he didn’t firmly believe was the right thing to do.”

 

“Yes, but… don’t you see? Somewhere in here—” she tapped the envelope on the dashboard— “he lost the thread. He decided the end justified the means. I know you don’t agree with that, or you wouldn’t have shown me this.”

 

“I’m just trying to fix his mistakes.”

 

“Exactly.” She opened the car door and stepped out before adding solemnly, “Here endeth the lesson.”

 

For once, Tony had no clever comeback.

 

*

 

The next morning, Peggy rose with the dawn, put on her exercise clothes, and walked out past the security desk with an air of confidence that was mostly feigned. Again, no one asked to see her day pass or tried to stop her.

 

The moment her feet touched the pavement, she had the sudden, heady notion to simply run away. She’d seen enough people in the park in exercise clothes to know that it wasn’t all that unusual to be out in public in them; if she could get to a public telephone, it couldn’t be too hard to puzzle out how to make a collect call. If all else failed, she could track down the address on Pepper’s business card, go to the office, and speak to the receptionist in person.

 

She was certain that if she asked Tony or Pepper for sanctuary, it would be granted without hesitation; unless Peggy had drastically misread their conversation, Pepper had been offering no less than that when she emphasized her own lack of involvement with SHIELD.

 

But Peggy Carter had never been one to back down from a fight and, for better or worse, she wasn’t about to start.

 

To relieve the tension in her muscles and steady her nerves, she ran laps around the SHIELD campus. The scenery was still relatively bland, but it was an improvement over the pale-green walls of the exercise room. She pushed herself to the absolute limit of her endurance, running fast and unceasingly for what must have been at least twenty miles before she started to feel the tell-tale burning in her calves—combined with an acute hollowness in her stomach, which reminded her that it had been almost twelve hours since she’d eaten.

 

She returned to her quarters, had a bath (to her mild vexation, there was no way to shave her legs, though she supposed it was only to be expected), and ate her breakfast. An hour later, still ravenous, she went to the cafeteria, ate _another_ breakfast, and drank what amounted to a quart of milk. She had a vague memory of Steve drinking as much milk as he could get his hands on after his transformation, and it seemed to help quell the hunger pangs at last.

 

It was while Peggy was in the midst of this absolute orgy of milk-drinking that she was approached by a blue-uniformed agent. Her lean frame was a study in economy of line and purity of movement—she cut across the room like a blade, straight-backed, her steely-sharp eyes fixed on the target.

 

This notable individual introduced herself as Agent Hill, and told Peggy that the Director was waiting to speak with her.

 

“I wasn’t aware we had an appointment,” said Peggy, frowning.

 

“You didn’t,” said Hill.

 

Peggy wondered whether Fury had got wind of her conversation with Tony the day before, and if so, what her strategy ought to be. Not for the first time, she wished that she could talk to Steve about it, somewhere outside the reach of SHIELD surveillance.

 

“Need a minute?” Hill inquired.

 

“Not at all.” Peggy drained her glass and stood up. “Ready when you are.”

 

*

 

Fury didn’t greet them, or even take his eye away from the wall of screens, when Peggy and Agent Hill entered the room.

 

Onscreen was chaos: shaky video of an auditorium, filled with civilians who were stampeding every which way.

 

“What am I looking at?” Fury demanded.

 

“Raw footage from seventeen different sources, sir,” said Hill, without missing a beat. “Twelve news cameras, five security feeds, two cell phones.” She had a clipped, precise way of speaking that marked her as career military; not a word wasted. Peggy liked her.

 

“Can I get the Director’s cut?” he inquired.

 

Hill cracked a smile, barely. She tapped the clear surface of Fury’s desk to bring up the keypad; the disparate screens resolved into a single moving image. It was a grainy black-and-grey shot from an overhead camera: Steve, in full dress uniform, standing in what looked like a backstage area. “15:02, Captain Rogers is on deck to receive the award.”

 

Steve looked tense, battle-ready. He glanced repeatedly around himself, and appeared to be breathing rapidly, his nostrils flaring, his chest contracting in short, sharp bursts.

 

“His handlers are concerned,” she added, somewhat unnecessarily, indicating the two young men in suits exchanging perplexed looks behind Steve’s back.

 

“Anxiety attack?”

 

“No, sir. Apparently he smelled the IED.”

 

Fury raised an eyebrow.

 

Hill nodded in apparent confirmation.

 

“IED?” inquired Peggy.

 

“Improvised explosive device,” said Hill curtly—annoyed, Peggy suspected, at having to provide the translation.

 

Peggy wasn’t familiar with the term, but she certainly understood the individual words well enough to pick up their combined meaning. She froze, her field of vision narrowing to the screen in front of her.

 

“You mean he smelled smoke,” Fury countered.

 

“No, sir. Can I take you through the entire incident?”

 

Fury gave her a nod.

 

Hill resumed her narrative: “Here, 15:07, is where he picks up speed.”

 

She tapped the tablet. A different video feed appeared, in full colour: Steve was speaking, in his quietly emphatic way, to a statuesque woman in a navy business suit.

 

“15:09, he orders White House security to move the President.” A scruffy, dark-haired man edged in front of the camera, blocking the view. Hill waited a few seconds, then switched the feed again—a long shot this time, the podium and stage visible. “15:13, once security reports back to him, he directs the press to evacuate.”

 

Shots of the crowd, scattering—waves of faces, confusion, annoyance, panic. Peggy scanned past each face until she found Steve, steely and resolute, giving instructions and running herd on the stragglers. She felt an irrational swell of pride in how efficiently he had combined instincts and training to handle a dangerous situation—until the last of the civilians had been evacuated and Steve, alone in the room, began feeling along the wall behind the stage.

 

_No!_ she thought, a bubble of panic rising in her chest. _Out, out, get out!_

 

Logically, she knew it was futile to rail at a spectre of an event that had already played out hours ago. It was unlikely that Fury would make her sit and watch a video of Steve being killed or grievously injured.

 

Emotionally, however, she couldn’t stop flashing back to basic training—little Private Rogers, launching himself onto a dummy grenade, to protect a cohort of men who barely tolerated him. Who knew what he would do with the safety of the president and a hundred or more civilians at stake?

 

A pair of figures in black body armour arrived, just as Steve found what he was looking for: a brown paper parcel, quite ordinary-looking, wedged into an air vent. After a quick conversation, the bomb techs lifted their face-shields and saluted (Peggy was gratified to note that they were both women). Pride and awe was written on their faces.

 

For his part, Steve returned the salute before turning and walking out of the camera’s range. Peggy couldn’t make out his face, but his relief was evident in the set of his shoulders.

 

Fury said, “Spoil the ending for me, Agent Hill.”

 

Hill tapped, and the figures moved in super-fast motion, peeling back the outer layers of the parcel. “Unmarked plastic explosive. Vintage stuff. As you can see, the primer was hooked up to a motion detector, but it apparently malfunctioned.”

 

“It’s 808,” Peggy observed, pointing to what appeared to be a block of green plasticine.

 

Fury and Hill swiveled in unison to look at her head-on. “That’s right,” said Hill. “Good guess.”

 

Peggy resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “It wasn’t a _guess_ ,” she retorted. “I know I’m behind the times, but I’ve worked with PE before. For that matter, so has Captain Rogers. 808 has a very distinct smell.”

 

“Which explains his sudden transformation into a goddamn bomb sniffing dog,” said Fury. Turning to Hill, he demanded, “Did you know he could do that?”

 

“Wasn’t in the file, sir,” she said crisply.

 

He pointed to Peggy. “How about you?”

 

“I’d no idea.”

 

“Can _you_?”

 

“How the bloody hell should I know?” snapped Peggy, having been pushed to her absolute limit. “Is that what you called me in here to discuss? Whether I can sniff out explosives on command? If it turns out I can, are you going to put a lead and a collar on me?”

 

“Ms. Carter, it might surprise you to know that you are not my only, or even my primary point of concern right now. Someone just tried to kill the President of the United States on my watch. But it occurred to me just now that, if you have even a fraction of the abilities Rogers does, you might be more useful than I thought.”

 

“Meaning?”

 

“Meaning, SHIELD is going to invest in your education after all.”

 

Peggy managed to conceal her surprise with, “Very generous of you.”

 

“I’m willing to offer a year of college and six months of specialized training. In return, I want two things.”

 

“Naturally.”

 

“Number one, a commitment from you that you’ll work for me for a minimum of five years after you graduate.”

 

“You think I’m SHIELD material, then? How flattering,” said Peggy dryly. She hoped the absurdity of the situation was hitting home for Fury: Howard’s name may have been on the masthead, but poaching the best and brightest members of the former SSR to create a new, independent intelligence division had been _her_ idea in the first place. It was something akin to being cordially invited to become a member of a club of which one had once been president.

 

Unfazed, Fury continued, “Number two, you have a tracking chip implanted. Call it insurance on my investment.”

 

“A tracking chip?”

 

“Subcutaneous microchip embedded in the base of the skull. All SHIELD agents have them—myself included. It lets us know where you are, monitors your biofeedback.”

 

“You expect me to have surgery?”

 

“It’s a tiny incision. A week’s recovery time for most people. For you… outpatient. You’d never even notice it.”

 

“You’re certain of that?”

 

“ _Very_ certain,” said Fury, his smile sharpening.

 

Peggy’s hand flew to the back of her head.

 

“You can’t feel it. It’s about a tenth of a millimeter thick, screwed to your occipital bone. Microsurgery. The location and the type of fasteners we use make it difficult to remove without the proper tools and training, so I wouldn’t advise any more razor-blade experiments.”

 

She leapt to her feet and aimed herself towards Fury across the desk, planting her hands on the blotter so that she would be less tempted to use them to throttle the man. “What gives you the right?!” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hill’s stance tighten, her hand hovering over her sidearm.

 

Fury didn’t move a muscle. “I learn from my mistakes, Ms. Carter—or I suppose I _would_ , if I _made_ mistakes, which I never _do_. I was trying to avoid another Times Square incident.”

 

Peggy racked her brain, trying to determine what this was supposed to be a reference to.

 

“Rogers panicked when he woke up. Took off. The toll was at least one car accident, a few thousand dollars in property damage, and seven SHIELD agents who had to be hospitalized after getting in his way.”

 

Of course. Steve had told her the story, in his understated manner: _Busted through a wall. Smacked some guys around. Caused quite a stir._ Tony, too, had mentioned it: Fury had ‘faked Steve out’with a recreated hospital room.

 

Peggy understood Steve’s reaction; after all, the same combination of terror and adrenaline had compelled her to slice open her own wrist only a few short days before. She wondered whether the serum had something to do with it, or whether it was just the experience of having lived through war that had left them both eternally restless.

 

“That’s the offer. The terms are non-negotiable. If you decide you want to walk away now, we can remove the chip.”

 

“And then what? I’m out on my arse with no money and no papers?”

 

“We release you to the care of Tony Stark, since you and he seem to have bonded.”

 

Peggy took a deep breath, tamped down her anger, and considered the situation objectively. As much as it chafed her, there was a lot to be gained from playing along with Fury’s plan—at least for now, until she had more experience of this world and a better understanding of SHIELD’s place in it.

 

She straightened up and offered her hand.

 

“Thank you for your cooperation,” said Fury.

 

*

 

SHIELD had the resources to falsify her school records, but Fury insisted that Peggy pass a high school equivalency test before her college admission was arranged. She had just over a month to study.

 

When Steve came back from Washington, he stopped by with a few booklets of practice exams, and offered to help her complete and review them.

 

Peggy’s psychiatrist continued to limit their visits to twice a week, and insisted on personally supervising their study sessions. She balked at this last restriction, but decided in the end that it was prudent to cooperate.

 

They met each time under the unforgiving fluorescent lights of the conference room; Peggy’s doctor at one end of the table, leafing through a magazine, and Peggy and Steve at the other, heads together over the printed page.

 

It wasn’t what Peggy would have called an ideal learning environment. The room was sterile, cold, and too quiet. The presence of the doctor was intrusive, and the presence of Steve… distracting.

 

His hands captivated her: they were long, pale, and slender, marvellously well-formed, the nails clean and neatly tended. Her brain didn’t seem able to manage interpreting poetry, but was capable of vivid flights of fancy where Steve’s hands were concerned. His profile, too—the carved lines of his cheekbones and jaw as he bent to decipher her handwriting—nearly undid her resolve more than once; he had the maddening habit of tapping a pencil against his mouth as he read. This drew her attention to the rosy softness of his lips, reminding her how they had felt against her own. Every time he smiled, she had to fight the urge to shove him onto on the conference table and tear off his shirt with her teeth.

 

It was, quite simply, _unfair_ of him to look like that when she wasn’t able to do anything about it.

 

They tackled each subject individually. Reading comprehension was simple enough. Maths had never been her strong point, but at least the numbers themselves hadn’t changed, and the principles came back to her with practice. Geography had altered in ways that were just subtle enough to be problematic, and the finer points of American history and politics still eluded her from time to time.

 

Science had leapt forward exponentially—the first time Peggy encountered a question about the process of cloning, the enormity of the task she was attempting crashed over her like a wave.

 

And, on top of everything else, American spelling was the very devil.

 

As a girl, Peggy hadn’t exactly been a keen student. She’d always been fond of reading, and had a quick, analytical mind and a capacious memory that had carried her as far as Oxford—but she’d been impatient, ambitious, too eager for her life to _start_ , and a bit boy-crazy into the bargain. By the time she’d come to realize the real value of her schooling, it was long over.

 

Steve was endlessly patient and unfailingly kind. Whenever they encountered a question whose answer he couldn’t explain, he would look it up on his cellular phone. Peggy had been boggled by the amount of detailed information contained in such a tiny device, until Steve had explained about the internet, and microchips, and USB drives. The intelligence community had come a long way from cramming information into microdots, it seemed.

 

“They call it a smart phone. Smart compared to me, anyhow.” He tapped the phone lightly against his forehead.

 

She found his hand under the table and squeezed. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she told him.

 

He squeezed back.

 

*

 

A week before her exam date, Steve arrived seeming distracted. He apologized repeatedly for being late, and gave some excuse about having overslept that appeared to be borne out by his unkempt appearance.

 

He misread questions, couldn't seem to calculate simple sums, and failed to correct Peggy's use of “colour” and “honour” in her practice essays.

 

“Is there something the matter?” she asked.

 

He started, mumbled something vague about a headache, then said, “I hate tests.” She thought he seemed paler than usual. There was a sheen of perspiration on his skin.

 

“You won't be sitting the exam,” she said slowly, feeling a creeping unease. “I will.”

 

He didn't say anything, but looked at her fretfully.

 

“Steve?” she prompted.

 

“Let's just get through this,” he said, and turned his face back to the workbook. His face had a pinched, determined sort of look, as though he were walking into a combat engagement and the odds were against him.

 

Peggy leaned closer and, under the guise of turning a page, brushed her loosely-curled fingers softly against his wrist.

 

Steve slid his hand across the table, out of her reach.

 

At the far end of the table, the doctor cleared his throat and suggested that they call it a day. Steve stood up so quickly he almost toppled his chair, and left without saying goodbye.

 

*

 

Peggy arrived for her next study session prepared to ask for an explanation—but Tony was the one was waiting with the doctor when she arrived.

 

“Cap had a thing,” he said lightly, but Peggy wasn't deceived.

 

Tony was an absolutely terrible tutor. He had that particular indifference to the formalities of grammar that was common to the naturally well-spoken, and he seemed more interested in mocking the inherent flaws of the test than in helping Peggy prepare for it. She became so exasperated that she tore through an answer sheet by writing too emphatically.

 

“You’re an American!” she exclaimed. “You’ve hardly any bloody history _to_ remember! Is it so much to ask that you make a decent effort?”

 

“I’ll pay for you to take a prep course,” said Tony. “They have those, don't they?”

 

Once they were in the hallway, well out of the doctor's earshot, she caught Tony by the sleeve and demanded, “Tell me about Steve.”

 

“What about him?”

 

“There’s something wrong, isn’t there?”

 

“He's fucked up," said Tony succinctly. “We’re all fucked up.”

 

Peggy gritted her teeth and growled, “Be more specific.”

 

“Steve isn't really in the habit of having heart-to-heart talks with me. Or anyone else around here.”

 

“What about Natasha?”

 

“What about her?” Tony asked, his expression guarded.

 

“There's no need for chivalry. He told me.”

 

“Uh huh,” said Tony neutrally.

 

They were getting off-topic. Peggy made a course correction. “Just tell me what's happened.”

 

“All I know is that he called this morning and tagged me in. His doctor told him he needed to take a break. He sounded the same as usual to me—uptight, no sense of humour.”

 

For the first time, it occurred to Peggy that she wasn't the only one under SHIELD’s medical supervision.

 

“He has bad days sometimes,” Tony added, as though it were nothing out of the ordinary.

 

“I see,” said Peggy, uncertain whether to address the comment about Steve, or what it implied about Tony himself. “As long as he’s… well.”

 

“Far as I know. You want to call him? Let's call him.”

 

Before Peggy could protest, Tony had dialed the number and shoved his mobile phone into her hand.

 

“Rogers.” The connection was perfectly clear—not like any telephone Peggy had ever used.

 

“Hello, Steve,” she said haltingly. Then, just to remove all doubt, she added, “It’s Peggy.”

 

“Yeah, hi.” He didn’t sound particularly unhappy—just exhausted. “You’re with Tony?”

 

“Yes. Did I wake you?”

 

“It’s okay… I should be up anyway.” He made a soft noise that sounded like yawning, or stretching, and there was a rustle of blankets; it was unexpectedly intimate, in a way that made Peggy’s colour rise. She imagined what his bed would be like, what he might wear to sleep in—then chastised herself for being so easily distracted. “Studying going okay?” he asked.

 

“Oh, it—yes, swimmingly, thanks.” Peggy had forgotten how very much she loathed speaking over the telephone. She hated the awkward pauses, the way she lapsed into expressions she hadn’t used since she was a schoolgirl. Any moment now, she was bound to call something ‘smashing’ or ‘topping’.

 

“Yeah... Tony's really good at that kind of stuff,” said Steve, rather dispiritedly.

 

She felt a flash of annoyance, and her instinct was to berate him, _order_ him to smarten up and stop moping about. But she knew Steve—had seen him persevere through circumstances that would have most men breaking down. She knew it wasn’t mere self-indulgence.

 

“Absolutely,” she agreed. “He does go awfully quickly, though.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

Tony, absently cleaning his fingernails with some sort of multi-tool, looked amused.

 

“Yes. At least I think so. And he can’t read my handwriting as well as you can.”

 

“You’re gonna do great,” he affirmed, and the optimism in his voice was genuine—though the sentiment was somewhat marred by what was obviously a muffled yawn.

 

“I’ll let you get back to sleep, shall I?” said Peggy, regally.

 

“I feel like that’s code for ‘get your lazy backside out of bed PDQ, mister.’”

 

“Far be it from me to insult an American institution by calling it lazy,” she retorted.

 

He chuckled.

 

“You do sound tired.”

 

“Just a little. Nothing to worry about. Good luck on the test, okay?”

 

There was more she would have liked to say, but not in front of Tony, and not over the telephone. Instead she settled for, “All right. Goodbye, then.” She had no idea how to ring off, so she dropped the device into Tony’s outstretched hand.

 

He toyed with it briefly, then said, “You need your own phone. When’s your birthday?”

 

“April.”

 

He shrugged. “We’ll call it a back-to-school present.”

 

“I haven’t passed the exam yet,” she reminded him. “And even if I had, I’ve no idea how to use one of those things.”

 

Tony put the phone back in her hand. “It’s not hard. Though my platonic life partner, Rhodey, still ass-texts me.”

 

Peggy wasn’t even going to attempt to make sense of that statement.

 

“Touch the screen,” he prompted. When she hesitated, he added, “You won’t break it. And the design is brilliantly intuitive.”

 

She tapped the glass lightly, the way she’d seen Tony and others do. The screen lit up. An experimental finger-swipe brought up a list of names; another, in the opposite direction, displayed a set of tiny letters.

 

All at once, she felt peculiarly powerful—clutching the tiny device gave her a sense of having plunged her hand into the current of a vast, coursing river of information. She could see why people seemed so emotionally invested in the infernal things.

 

“This is amazing,” said Tony. “It’s like you’re from another planet.”

 

“Never mind that.” Peggy held the clear glass up to frame Tony’s face. “Show me how to take a photograph.”

 

It turned out that Tony was a far better instructor when the subject matter interested him.

 

*

 

The following week, Peggy passed her exams with flying colours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is at last! I know this chapter has been a long, long time in coming. This is definitely a service chapter: I had a place that I wanted to get to, and certain information that I wanted to reveal, and now I've done that, and we can move on. The good news is that the next 5-6 chapters are nearly complete, so I'm hoping you'll hear from me a little more frequently in future. :)


	10. When the Lights Go On Again

 

Peggy kept her end of the bargain, and allowed SHIELD’s doctors to run her through the rat mazes in return for her freedom. They weren’t very forthcoming about their conclusions, but they did let her know that she wasn’t in any danger of transmitting the effects of the super-serum. As much as she disapproved of Fury’s methods, she could see the logic in his wanting to make that determination before turning her loose—even though the only person she had a mind to kiss wasn’t in danger of being altered. She wondered whether they’d managed to track down all of the women on Steve’s list, and what the results had been.

 

The college SHIELD’s immersion program found for Peggy was in a small town, about five hours’ drive north-east of New York City. There was a just a whiff of pettiness about the selection of the location; she was both maddeningly close to, and inopportunely distant from, everyone she knew.

 

Then again, she reflected, the point of an immersion program was to be _immersed_ —it would be hard to do that while Tony’s money and resources cushioned her every fall. She would just have to work around the distance, that was all.

 

Peggy refused to let Tony send his driver to take her to school (or to let him buy her a car—a suggestion she greeted with the incredulous silence it deserved). In the end, Pepper drove Peggy up to school, a woeful little SHIELD-issue duffel bag tucked in the back seat of Pepper’s car. In it were all her worldly possessions: her clothes, a few books, the identification and credit card SHIELD had provided, and Tony’s promised back-to-school gift of a cellular phone, still in the packaging. In her pocketbook she also had a bank card, linked to the account Tony had set up in her name. She was still furious with Howard for leaving her the money, but it was there, and it would be foolish to assume she would never need it.

 

On their way up to the school, they stopped at a gargantuan Swedish furniture store. Peggy tried not to appear too gobsmacked by the prices of things, but instead focused on selecting pieces that felt like home, ably assisted by Pepper and her decorator’s eye. She came in slightly over her SHIELD-approved budget; Pepper refused to entertain Peggy’s protests, and put the rest on her own credit card. “Just call me a shopping enabler,” she said cheerfully.

 

Apparently, this trait extended as far as apartment shopping: with Pepper’s help, Peggy had managed to secure off-campus accommodations in the form of a what was commonly referred to as a ‘character building,’ built in the 1930s and sparingly renovated over the years.

 

When they arrived, Pepper insisted on inspecting the suite with Peggy and her new landlady, Doris. Pepper was absolutely unrelenting: she looked into every cupboard, opened and closed each door and window, turned every tap, and tested every shelf and fixture. The only flaw she was able to find was that the bedroom window, which was north-facing, had a small crack; she made certain Doris noted it on the inspection report, so that Peggy wouldn’t be charged when it was repaired. Pepper maintained a calm and pleasant demeanour throughout, but Peggy could pinpoint the exact moment when her friend shifted roles from nurturer to negotiator.

 

Once the furniture had been delivered and assembled, it took them another full day—and countless cups of coffee and tea—to clean and organize the rest of the flat. It was invigorating to have a task to focus on, one with definite steps and concrete results, and they made the time pass with steady, companionable chatter. Pepper talked at length about her own college experience: the friends she’d made, the boys she’d dated.

 

“Speaking of which,” she said lightly, “how’s it going with Steve?”

 

Peggy hadn’t seen Steve in person since their disastrous final study date, though they had spoken over the telephone twice more in the interim. Both times, he had been pleasant, but obviously preoccupied, and she had found herself hampered by the medium.

 

“Speaking of which, best to say nothing at all,” she retorted.

 

Pepper, who was in the midst of wiping down the insides of the kitchen cabinets, did exactly that, and Peggy went back to the box of dishes she was unpacking. She was irritated with herself—the endless weeks of being prodded at by her SHIELD psychiatrist had left her ill-equipped to handle a well-intentioned query from a friend whose opinion she trusted.

 

“I suppose it’s sort of… lost its momentum,” she confessed. “We went out the once, and it was very nice, it was lovely, but then I rarely saw him alone after that.”

 

“You could invite him here for the weekend.”

 

“It isn’t that simple.”

 

“No?”

 

“It’s—well.” Peggy found herself at a bit of a loss to explain how things had been to someone who hadn’t lived in wartime. “We had—there was an understanding between us, before. Nothing was ever spoken, but we both knew how we felt. It just wasn’t the time to act on it.”

 

“It never is.” Pepper’s voice echoed in a cupboard.

 

“It was over a year apart, for me. Longer than that for him. Each of us mourned the other and moved on. We’ve both been involved with other people since. I’ve no idea if he feels the same way he did—or, for that matter, if I feel the same way I did. And with everything that’s happened, it’s impossible to find one’s footing.”

 

“Well, there’s no rush. You have his number.”

 

“Yes. Bloody telephone,” she muttered, ostensibly to a pair of cereal bowls.

 

“Oh! That reminds me,” said Pepper, rising gracefully from where she’d been kneeling. “I’ll be right back.”

 

She went out to the car and returned with a large, flat box, placing it on the kitchen counter next to where Peggy was working. “I got you a little housewarming present, to go with Tony’s.”

 

Pepper’s gift turned out to be a portable computer. Pepper slid it carefully out of its nest of cardboard and foam—it was a small flat silver thing that put Peggy in mind of a cafeteria tray more than anything—and walked her through how to set it up. Then they opened up the cell phone box, and Pepper reviewed how to make a call and how to send a text message.

 

Finally, they connected the two devices to each other so that they could “synchronize,” a process that turned out to be nowhere near as ominous as it sounded. Pepper showed Peggy how to use her phone as a sort of appointment book that could remind her beforehand whenever assignments were due or exams were coming up.

 

“Don’t let Tony put a finger on either of these,” counselled Pepper. “He’s always ‘upgrading’ things that don’t need to be improved. If he says the words ‘open source’ to you, smack him, don’t even hesitate, just—” Pepper stopped short and flushed slightly. Apparently Tony had told her about the park. “You know what I mean,” she finished, anti-climactically.

 

“I’ll remember,” said Peggy.

 

They parted that evening, with hugs and promises to be in touch. Peggy watched the brake lights of Pepper’s silver Audi shrink into the darkness, until they vanished around a turn.

 

All at once, she was on her own, in the uncharted wilds of the 21st century.

 

*

 

Peggy quickly grew to adore her little top-floor flat; with its hardwood floors, exposed brick and timber, steam radiators, and small, compartment-like rooms, it felt like home almost immediately.

 

The two lower levels were occupied by a flock of elderly widows, including Doris, who owned the building. The other tenants weren’t quite her generation, being in their seventies, but they were charming ladies and seemed as though they would be considerate neighbours. They took to Peggy almost immediately, complimenting her on her fashion sense and her impeccable manners. No one batted an eye at her cover story—that she was a transfer student from London, studying American history. They regularly asked her in for coffee and baking, and delighted in getting her to repeat words so that they could coo over her accent.

 

Peggy spent the week before the start of classes exploring the neighbourhood, taking pictures on her phone to use as navigational aids. On her street, there was a sweet-smelling bakery; an antique shop crowded with curios; a used bookstore; and a faux-British pub called the Fox and Trout, whose menu seemed to be a mixed bag of English, Scottish and Irish fare. She figured out how to use the map feature on her phone (she couldn’t help wondering whether Steve knew about this) and was able to guide herself around campus, finding the locations of her various classes so she wouldn’t be lost on the first day.

 

When that day finally came, it turned out that SHIELD had learned a few lessons from Steve’s participation in the cultural immersion program: Peggy’s class schedule included an introductory computer course.

 

This was fortunate, because—despite her small successes with the phone—Peggy was already contemplating the defenestration of her laptop. She wished she could just use a typewriter; she’d seen one, which looked to be in fair working order, in the front window of the antique shop on her street. She supposed she should be grateful that the keys were still in the same order as they were when she was a girl.

 

On the first day of school, Peggy learned the basics of the internet, and how to send and receive e-mails—which shed a light on that indecipherable hodgepodge of text and punctuation at the bottom of both Steve and Pepper’s business cards.

 

That night at home, she sat at her desk, turning Steve’s card over and over in her hands, trying to decide what to write. Whether to write.

 

She decided to compose a thank-you note to Pepper first, as a sort of dry run. She attached one of the photos she’d taken of the campus on the first day of school.

 

The next morning at school, Peggy signed on to her network account to find that she had not one, but _two_ new e-mails.

 

The first message was a friendly reply from Pepper, praising the photo and giving a few recommendations for local clothing stores. There was a postscript: _I hope you don’t mind, but I shared your e-mail address with some mutual friends._

 

The second e-mail read, _Dear Peggy,_ _I hope school is treating you well. How’s the weather? Please drop me a line if you can. All the best, Steve._

 

As simple as that.

 

Peggy clicked reply, then sat in front of a blank screen for five full minutes before telling herself to smarten up. She began to type and did not stop until she had produced a salutation, a full paragraph of news, and a signature line that did not include the word “sincerely.”

 

The moment she was done, she hit send before she had time to reconsider.

 

*

 

It was three days later when Peggy first noticed that she was being followed.

 

She was walking out of class (the very convenient and informative _World History After 1945_ ) when she had the distinct sensation of being watched. Peggy had learned through experience not to distrust her intuition; she made a show of having forgotten something—pausing, rifling through her bookbag, shuffling her papers about—all the while glancing surreptitiously around her for anyone who seemed out of place. She wished, for the first time since she’d arrived, that SHIELD had had the good sense to issue her a pistol.

 

And then she spotted him: frayed jeans, coffee-stained t-shirt, scruffy hair, and those keen, clear eyes. He was slouched on a bench, seemingly absorbed in a battered textbook, his feet propped up on a worn-looking backpack. He had on a pair of those ubiquitous little white earplugs, and appeared to be nodding in time to whatever he was listening to.

 

“Hello,” she called, striding over to the bench.

 

He didn’t look up.

 

She stopped directly in front of him. “Fancy meeting you here,” she said loudly.

 

No reaction.

 

“Barton,” she barked, and nudged his foot with hers. “You’ve been rumbled.”

 

He pulled the plugs out of his ears and flicked his gaze upwards, looking confused. “’Scuse me?”

 

“Our mutual friend Nicholas sent you?”

 

He gave her a blank look. “Do I know you?”

 

“Do you mean to say we’ve never met?”

 

“I feel like I’d remember if we had,” he remarked, with a saucy grin.

 

Peggy made a derisive sound, and walked away.

 

“Was it at a party?” he called after her. “Was I wearing a toga?”

 

A quick call to Nick Fury’s direct line (which Tony had been kind enough to program into her phone) confirmed that the man Barton was “nothing she needed to worry about.” Fury declined to give specifics, and suggested that she focus instead on her upcoming mid-terms. Peggy politely refrained from counter-proposing what _he_ ought to focus on.

 

She saw Barton almost daily after that: in the cafeteria, in lecture halls, on the quad—even once at a wool shop, when she’d popped in to get supplies to knit a scarf. He seemed to have an infinite number of costume changes, and displayed an enviable knack for blending into a collegiate crowd in spite of his age. He always watched her from a distance, and if she waved or met his eye he never acknowledged it.

 

She supposed it made sense that SHIELD would send a shadow; she was surprised that they would have risked tipping their hand by sending someone she would almost certainly recognize. Unless, of course, she was _meant_ to recognize him. Perhaps it was some sort of test—Fury seemed fond of those. She wondered whether she’d passed or failed by making the call.

 

After the first week, once she’d become accustomed to seeing him everywhere, Barton’s presence became mere background noise; one more thread in the curious tapestry of her new life.

 

*

 

It didn’t take Peggy long to adapt to school. She studied dutifully, devoured paperback novels whenever she had the chance, and mastered the art of giving benign refusals to invitations from boys in her class. And they were _boys_ —gleefully vaulting from one experience to the next, testing the span of their wings for the first time. They were, while very endearing, not exactly her cup of tea, even if there hadn’t been Steve to consider.

 

Steve, as it turned out, was a very thoughtful e-mail correspondent.

 

At first, it was mostly questions: _How are you? How’s school treating you? Any plans for the weekend?_ _How’s the weather?_ (Invariably this last, as though she were on the opposite side of the globe, instead of in the same state.) Peggy’s first replies were agreeable, if slightly formal, and primarily fact-based: _I am well. Thank you for asking. This week I am reading_ To Kill a Mockingbird _, studying Mendel’s principles of heredity, and learning how to find research articles on the Internet. This weekend I am going to study, and shop for groceries. Today the temperature is 73 degrees. Tomorrow it might rain. How are you?_

 

Gradually, Steve’s messages became more personal. _There’s a young family living across the hall from me,_ he wrote in one e-mail. _They have three little boys._ _Sometimes_ _I hear the kids playing in the hallway. Right now they’re competing to see who can do the scariest laugh. The smallest one is winning._

 

_In my experience, the smallest ones are always the ones to watch,_ Peggy wrote back.

 

She still hated her computer with a passion, but she began to look forward to the ritual of sitting at her desk with a cup of tea every morning before she left for class.

 

She happened to mention this in one of her e-mails; the next morning, Steve replied, _Just got back from a run. I’m on the roof with my coffee, watching the sun come up. I brought my laptop along so you could be here too, with your tea._

 

Such a small thing, but it made her smile the whole day.

 

When there wasn’t an e-mail from Steve, there was always one from Pepper—to the point where she was tempted to ask them whether they’d synchronized their calendars.

 

Tony also sent occasional messages—usually cryptic one-liners, or links to websites that were entirely lost on her. He had an irrational dread of the shift key and the full stop that made his notes difficult to parse. She never would have thought that she’d wind up missing their little visits. One day, she bought a copy of _Popular Mechanics_ , simply because Tony’s glowering face on the cover made her feel a little more at home.

 

The article had to do with medical prosthetics—apparently Stark Industries was now in the business of producing bionic limbs, and was even developing a synthetic skin that could communicate with existing nervous systems. Both Tony and Pepper (or rather, “CEO Virginia Potts”) were quoted; there was a photo of Pepper visiting a veterans’ hospital, and another of Tony shaking hands with a young man testing out a new prosthetic arm. Peggy made a mental note to e-mail Pepper, and ask where she’d bought the blouse she was wearing in the picture.

 

One of Peggy’s classmates—Charlotte, a cherubic young lady of twenty-one—spotted her paging through the magazine before class. She referred to Tony as a “stone fox,” adding that she wouldn’t kick him out of bed for offenses unspecified. Peggy managed to keep a straight face long enough to inquire whether Charlotte would like to have the magazine once she’d finished reading it. And just like that, she found herself invited to have coffee, along with a few other girls from their class.

 

They seemed like nice girls, clever and kind. They didn’t seem to think anything of the fact that she drank tea instead of coffee, and no one batted an eyelash when Peggy (who loathed being idle, even for a moment) pulled out her scarf-in-progress to knit while they talked. The only hurdle she encountered was when the discussion turned to popular television shows, and Peggy was forced to confess that she didn’t own a television—and even that was bypassed easily enough, when Charlotte remarked that she’d been meaning to get rid of hers.

 

They invited her out for coffee after the next class, too—and the one after that.

 

Peggy gradually realized that all of the things that would have made her stand out in some social contexts—her taste in fashion and music, her hobbies, her wry indifference to technology and popular culture—helped her blend easily into a community of young people trying to find their limits and forge distinct identities.

 

In her own time, Peggy had been an independent adult, already on her second career. By the time she’d moved to New York, most of her Oxford schoolmates had long since married and begun producing children (apart from a select few, who had elected to carry on at college and produce books instead).

 

In this time, however, it was considered perfectly acceptable to be facing the crossroads of one’s life at the advanced age of 27. It was, she supposed, the natural extension of the so-called _post-war mindset_ she kept encountering in her readings for history class.

 

Most illuminating of all were the discussions about modern relationships. Peggy’s new friends discussed their love lives freely and frankly, and while there was a certain amount of good-natured ribbing, it seemed to be quite a regular thing for a girl to sleep with a man (or for that matter, a woman) that she had absolutely no interest in marrying or even dating. This had often happened in Peggy’s time, too—only one didn’t necessarily _discuss_ it, and certainly not in a crowded coffee shop at full volume.

 

Peggy’s own first college experience had involved considerably fewer extracurriculars than those of her friends; however, she had in fact lost her virginity to an underclassman—a carefully combed ash-blond boy, whose civil demeanour masked a devilish wit and a passionate idealism. Sebastian had come across best in writing: he’d made his interest known to Peggy by composing a series of sonnets extolling her charms. The kissing was rather good, but the rest had all been less than inspiring.

 

Her first real introduction to the joys of the flesh had been with Charlie, a charming and loquacious RAF pilot who—as it turned out—had told the same tragic tale of love and loss to at least two other girls of her acquaintance. Once the dust had settled from that little blowout, she’d been compelled to concede that the physical aspect of their encounters was the only part she really missed.

 

In short, Peggy had had sufficient experience to be able to relate to the substance of the discussions, and she was able to gloss over the gaps in her contemporary knowledge by claiming ignorance of American slang. Her friends were happy to define terms and provide examples from personal experience: in short order, Peggy learned about _hookups_ , about _friends with benefits_ (or the more crude but less euphemistic _fuckbuddies_ ), about _barebacking_ , and the miraculous _morning-after-pill_. Most surprising of all was _sexting_ , particularly in light of what Peggy had read about the Patriot Act. She tried to picture Steve’s reaction if she were to send him a lewd text message, and found she couldn’t.

 

Peggy’s new friends encouraged her to meet boys and go on dates, but she demurred, with the vague excuse that there was “someone back home.”

 

*

 

There were times she wouldn’t hear from Steve. She would scan the headlines with increasing dread, waiting for the inevitable announcement that Captain America had fallen. But despite whatever chaos was splashed across the front pages, he invariably turned up: humble, kind-hearted, and relentlessly optimistic. In other words, the same old Steve Rogers.

 

She mentioned in one e-mail that she was studying poetry in her lit class; Steve responded by sending her a poem by Galway Kinnell, the last line of which gave her a chill each time she read it. She printed a copy of the e-mail in the school’s computer lab, and tacked it up on the bulletin board behind her desk at home.

 

Another time, she denigrated the dearth of any decent music on the campus radio station. Steve’s reply arrived while she was taking notes in the library.

 

_Next time we see each other,_ it read, _I’ll show you how to download music on your computer. Maybe we can find something worth dancing to. Click here._

 

She clicked, and a moment later, Vera Lynn was warbling from the laptop’s speakers. “ _When the lights go on again, all over the world…_ _A kiss won’t mean goodbye but hello to love…_ ”

 

All around her, students’ heads popped up. A few were annoyed, although most had that weary, glazed expression one got when being abruptly roused from a studying fugue. Barton, over in his usual corner (today sporting a beard, a black woolen watch-cap, a voluminous coffee and a rather dire-looking volume on Sartre) seemed amused.

 

It took her a moment to locate the mute button. She nodded apologetically to the other students in the room, her face warming.

 

She hit reply and typed, _What a lovely surprise, though a warning would not have gone amiss. I would appreciate any computer assistance you might render, as I am still quite a novice._ _Are you free next weekend? My flat is small, but overnight guests are welcome._ She signed it, sent it, then resolutely closed her laptop and forced her attention back to her schoolwork.

 

Steve’s reply arrived within the hour, but she waited until she was home to open it.

 

It read, _Sounds great. I hope your couch is comfortable._


	11. Let Me Love You Tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the previous chapter, Steve sent Peggy a poem via email. I meant to post it in the notes to the end of that chapter, but then I didn't. So here it is. And now you know.
> 
>  **Canada Warbler**  
>  Galway Kinnell
> 
> The Canada Warbler on his limb  
> Did not sing a word, but toward us  
> Wheeled his bright throat, his breast  
> As round and black-flaming as a rising sun,  
> That is, so to speak, _sinking_ into the sky.
> 
> When I sail to Europe it will be  
> With my back to Europe, trailing the black  
> Flames, miracles, flames we never lit.  
> The warbler did not sing, we did not speak.  
> Only, you were like a harp, at my thought’s touch.

* * *

 

When the day came, Peggy absolutely refused to sit on the front step and wait like an addle-pated schoolgirl. (She did, however, perch in her front window with a novel in her lap for over an hour, and would have been hard-pressed to recall a single word of it afterwards.)

 

She heard the motorbike before she saw it, roaring down the street before coming to a tidy stop in front of the building. She watched as Steve dismounted, swinging his long leg easily over the enormous chassis, and began detaching a saddlebag from the rear of the bike. He was wearing dark blue jeans and a brown leather jacket—no helmet.

 

Sitting in the window, watching him, she felt deeply, unaccountably uneasy. It took her a moment to place the source of her anxiety: it would be the first meeting she’d ever had with Steve that would not be, in some way, supervised or regulated. They weren’t working together, no one was in the care of a doctor, and there wasn’t a single security camera or two-way mirror in sight. They were free to do exactly as they pleased.

 

What if this was all for naught? What if, after all of this time and effort and fruitless longing, they found that they simply weren’t suited for each other?

 

Steve, meanwhile, was peering up at the building with his saddlebag slung over his shoulder, looking as apprehensive as she felt. That made the whole thing seem less terrifying, somehow—they were still in this together, both pulling in the same direction.

 

After a moment, he spotted her sitting in the window. A smile lit up his face, and he waved.

 

As Peggy descended the front steps of the building to greet him, she noticed a flutter of curtains in the ground floor windows.

 

“Don’t look now,” she said quietly, “but I believe we’re about to have some chance encounters with my downstairs neighbours.”

 

Steve nodded, looking resigned.

 

Sure enough, everyone _happened_ to be taking out their recycling at the exact moment Steve entered the building.

 

“You should wear a helmet, young man,” chided one of Peggy’s neighbours.

 

Doris made a _tsk_ sound and observed, “He’s a good-looking boy, let him show off for Margaret if he wants to. Is this your boyfriend, Margaret?”

 

“This is Steve,” said Peggy evasively.

 

As usual, Steve was courteous and affable—shaking hands, offering rain checks on all invitations for tea and coffee cake. At one point she heard him say, slightly too earnestly, “I get that a lot, yeah, I guess it is quite a resemblance.”

 

Peggy seized him by the arm, chiding, “You promised to look at my computer.” The ladies made approving noises at this, and she was able to lead Steve up the stairs without further incident.

 

Once inside the apartment, she gave him a quick tour: sitting room, kitchen, lavatory, a quick peek into her darkened bedroom.

 

Steve was a larger-than-average man, even in an outdoor setting; framed against the backdrop of her modest flat, he suddenly seemed absolutely enormous. There was no way he was going to be able to recline comfortably on the two-person sofa.

 

“It’ll be fine,” said Steve, waving away her apologies.

 

“There’s always—my bed, you could…” she faltered at the crucial moment.

 

“That’s okay. I’d hate to put you out. Don’t worry about me, I can sleep anywhere,” he assured her cheerfully. “One time I fell asleep standing up on the B train.”

 

She decided it was best not to correct his assumption about the offer—the rest of the weekend would be uncomfortable for both of them if he refused.

 

“Uh… what’s that?”

 

Peggy knew exactly what he was referring to, but responded with an offhand, “Pardon?”

 

“That. _That_.” Steve jabbed the air with his index finger, pointing at a framed print hanging on the wall above the sofa.

 

“Hmm?” Peggy glanced over her shoulder nonchalantly. “Oh, _that_. Do you like it? I bought it at the antique shop up the road.”

 

“What for?” He sounded mortified at the prospect.

 

She turned to look up at the poster—a full-colour U.S. Treasury advertisement for war bonds. Captain America was shaking hands with Uncle Sam, his stalwart form rendered in exquisite (one might almost say loving) detail. The Sentinel of Liberty sported a smug smirk and a jaunty salute, neither of which Peggy had ever seen on Steve in real life.

 

“I was seized by a fit of nostalgia, I suppose. I’m told it’s a collector’s item.” Cheekily, she added, “I think it does wonders for the ambience in here. Don’t you?”

 

Steve made a woeful noise. “Your landlady said I looked like…”

 

“Yes, she saw it when I was bringing it in. She thinks it’s delightful.”

 

“I think it’s _horrifying_.”

 

“Good thing it’s my flat, then,” said Peggy smartly.

 

Despite his observation that it was different than the one he had at home, it didn’t take Steve long to find his way around her computer. She wasn’t surprised; he’d always had an inquiring mind, and had never been intimidated by technology.

 

“Do you mind if I put something on your desktop?” he asked.

 

“It’s not that game with the dinosaur that eats sweets, is it? Or the fruit one?” Her classmates were constantly evangelizing their favourite apps, and experience had made Peggy rather wary.

 

“No. It isn’t too big, and I promise you’ll like it.”

 

“I’ve heard that one before, soldier,” she retorted.

 

Steve turned to look at her, eyebrows raised. She gestured for him to get on with it.

 

A moment later, a little icon of a cartoon mailbox appeared on her desktop, labelled simply, ‘Steve.’

 

“It’s called FlagUp,” he explained. “It’s a shared drive—I can leave things in here for you, and you can leave things for me. Just drag and drop.”

 

He fiddled with the screen of his phone; on Peggy’s laptop, the little red flag of the cartoon mailbox popped up, with a cheery chime.

 

“That means you have new files. I made you a playlist.” He clicked the mailbox, and a folder opened. Music files were appearing in the folder, one by one.

 

She balanced herself on the arm of the chair, peering down at the screen. “And what’s that, when it’s at home?”

 

His free hand ghosted over the small of her back, seemingly without conscious thought from its owner; she felt a prickling heat radiate up her spine, settling between her shoulder blades. She wished that he would either _touch_ her or _not_ touch her—half-measures be damned.

 

“Just what it sounds like—a list of songs.” The mellow opening notes of _Moonlight Serenade_ filled the room. “Music I thought you’d like.” He showed her how to import the music files from the FlagUp folder to her own music software, which was sadly underpopulated, and how to group them in a list.

 

“And… it stays there?”

 

“As long as you want it there, yeah.”

 

“Brilliant. What other songs are on the list?”

 

He set the laptop aside, stood up, and took hold of her hand. “I guess we’ll have to see.”

 

It turned out that the next piece of music on the playlist was a faster song by Glenn Miller. This gave Steve ample opportunity to demonstrate his grasp of the Lindy hop, the collegiate shag, as well as a few moves with which Peggy was unfamiliar—all without stepping on her feet once.

 

For her part, Peggy was a little rusty, not having danced properly since that night at the Stork Club almost seventy years ago, but together they made a decent go of it.

 

“I knew you’d be a good dancer,” she told him, giving his arm a squeeze.

 

He beamed. “Had a little time to practice.”

 

“With Natasha?” The question slipped out before she could stop herself.

 

The look he gave her was faintly reproachful. “Pepper showed me the basic steps, and I figured out the rest by watching videos.”

 

An unfamiliar song had started now—upbeat and brassy, the crooner’s voice full of promise and hope. They fell into an easy box step, Steve holding her a little closer than before.

 

“Pepper?” she echoed. She knew it was irrational and even a bit childish, but she considered Pepper _her_ friend, one of the few she’d managed to make since arriving in this time.

 

He nodded.

 

“You know her through Tony.”

 

Another nod.

 

“What exactly are they, to one another? Besides business associates, I mean.”

 

“None of your business,” said Steve, so primly that she couldn’t help but laugh.

 

“Oh, _well_. I beg your pardon.”

 

“It’s not,” he insisted, executing a tidy tuck-turn to punctuate the statement. “It’s between them. Just like it’s no one’s business what you and I are doing.”

 

“And what _are_ we doing?”

 

“I thought it was obvious.” He smiled and reeled her in tighter. “We’re dancing.”

 

“So we are,” she replied, smiling back.

 

*

 

After dancing, a bit of supper, and a brisk walking tour of the campus, they stopped for drinks at the Fox and Trout.

 

Peggy had been in only twice, with her classmates; it was a preposterous anachronism that had clearly been designed by someone whose only knowledge of jolly-old-England came from television programs. There was a lot of wood paneling and a critical mass of kitsch, and the barmaids (mostly college students) wore tiny tartan kilts. The place was bustling with the Saturday evening crowd—Peggy spotted Charlotte and the girls a few tables down, and exchanged waves.

 

Peggy was learning not to be alarmed by modern hemlines, but she still disapproved of the way their waitress propped herself against Steve’s shoulder while she took their drink order. He was wearing a cream-coloured sweater that looked as though it would be very soft; Peggy resented how easily, how thoughtlessly the girl kept touching him.

 

For his part, Steve didn’t appear to notice the unsolicited attention; he seemed more interested in their surroundings. “So this is your regular watering hole?” he teased, after the waitress had left. “A little piece of home?”

 

“Hardly that,” she said dryly. “Though it does amuse me, to see what life would have been like if the Americans had conquered England.”

 

He leaned in, as if imparting a confidence, his knee brushing hers under the table. “You mean they haven’t?”

 

“Why, Captain Rogers. _What_ are you implying?”

 

He grinned, and seemed on the verge of saying what she hoped would be something wicked—which was, of course, when the girl returned, interrupting to tell Peggy that the bar didn’t stock Dubonnet. Peggy settled for a gin and tonic instead.

 

Gin, at least, hadn’t changed: it lit a fire in her belly and loosened her tongue. Before long, she’d launched into a cracking monologue about her classes, her instructors, and the cavalcade of ineptitude that formed the undergraduate body of her school.

 

Steve said very little, but listened intently, chin propped up on his hand. Peggy’s gaze was continuously drawn to his mouth; she kept noticing how full it was, how perfectly pink and plush and _edible_.

 

She couldn’t seem to stop blushing— it appeared that her enhanced abilities didn’t extend as far as being completely immune to the effects of liquor. She didn’t usually drink to excess, but after all, if American television was any indication, college was supposed to be a time to expand one’s repertoire.

 

“I haven’t seen my shadow tonight,” she observed.

 

“Your what?”

 

“My imaginary friend, courtesy of Nick Fury and the American taxpayer. Mr. Barton. Presumably they’ve given him the night off because you’re here?”

 

“Barton? Clint Barton?”

 

“I don’t believe he gave his first name when we met. I take it you know him?”

 

“Sure I know him. I told you about him, remember? Hawkeye.”

 

It took her a moment to place the sobriquet. “The marksman.” The SHIELD agent who’d been in Loki’s thrall during the attack on the Helicarrier. _No wonder he has no friends,_ she thought soberly.

 

“Yeah. When did you meet him?”

 

“In the long-term care ward. He’d hurt his knee.”

 

“I remember he was in the hospital. Didn’t even occur to me that you two might run into each other there. What’d you think of him?”

 

“A bit odd,” was Peggy’s assessment.

 

“His sense of humour takes some getting used to. Say hi to him for me next time he’s around.”

 

“Oh, he and I don’t speak. He just sort of… pops up in places where one happens to be. I can’t imagine he has a very stimulating time of it,” she drawled, her voice a bit thick with the drink. “Trailing after me all the livelong day. Dull as dishwater.”

 

Mildly, Steve replied, “I wouldn’t mind.”

 

*

 

A few very potent gin-and-tonics later, they started home. Peggy led the way through the darkened streets, past the twilight storefronts, pausing in front of the antique shop to point out the typewriter.

 

“It’s a nice machine,” said Steve, his breath unfurling into plumes of white. “I don’t think SHIELD would cover it, though.”

 

Peggy shivered a little, and Steve obligingly put his arm around her, tucking her securely against his side.

 

“Gets cold here at night,” he observed, sounding pleased.

 

“I understand it’s supposed to snow any day now,” she remarked, speaking slowly, so as not to slur her words. “I wish it would bloody well get on with it.”

 

“You’re really cute when you’re tipsy,” said Steve.

 

“So do you,” she replied, then spun around to face him, laughing as her own non sequitur caught up with her. She felt as though she were brimming with warmth and feeling, and it would take very little encouragement for her to overflow.

 

He grinned. “That so?” The chill made his hot breath cool to dampness against her skin.

 

She had to stand on her toes to kiss him, her elbows braced against his chest; there was a precarious moment when her feet skidded on the icy sidewalk, but then he wrapped both arms tightly around her, steadying her. Their lips met and he opened his mouth to hers without reservation, warmth seeking warmth, enthusiastic and just a tiny bit sloppy, in the best way.

 

It had been a long time since Peggy had allowed herself to fully feel this: the edgy restlessness of desire, the sensation of wanting to _devour_ the other person, to bite and taste and fill yourself up with them until you were fit to burst.

 

Her hands seemed to move of their own accord—skating over his shoulders and down his back, then daringly sliding up and under his shirt. The sweater was as soft as she’d suspected, but it was nowhere near as smooth, warm or welcoming as the skin beneath it.

 

She dug her nails reflexively into the sleek muscles of his back and he actually _growled_ , a very un-Steve-like sound, something akin to the purring of a large cat. She hummed her approval as his hands found her hips, skimming along the waistband of her skirt and then sliding down to grasp her bottom, pulling her more securely against him. Her head was swimming, and she felt intoxicated—not by the drink, but by the heat of him, his scent, the certainty of his mouth moving against hers.

 

Abruptly, Steve relaxed his grip and set her down gently. He took a step backwards; there were bright spots of colour on both of his cheeks, and his eyelashes were dewy.

 

“Okay,” he said, his voice hoarse. “We should get inside.”

 

They walked the rest of the way to her flat arm-in-arm, Steve setting a quick pace, Peggy’s heart pounding in her ears the entire way.

 

Once inside, Steve helped her off with her coat and scarf. When he turned to smile at her, she saw that there were traces of her lipstick at the corners of his mouth, and on the underside of his lower lip.

 

“I guess you’ll want to get some shut-eye,” he said, and leaned in to kiss the top of her head with what seemed to be mere afterthought. “In the morning, we can—”

 

“I wish you’d try to take me to bed at least _once_.” Peggy snapped her mouth shut a moment too late, mortified to have given herself away so blatantly.

 

Steve chuckled. It was better than awkward silence or a flat refusal, but still not quite the reaction one might have hoped for. “Maybe when you’re not three sheets to the wind?” he suggested, infuriatingly calm.

 

“Much as I appreciate your consideration of my virtue, Captain Rogers, there is a flaw to your logic.” Peggy didn’t quite know why she was suddenly talking like a character in a Regency novel. She blamed the gin.

 

“How so?”

 

“You very nearly tore my clothes off in the street not five minutes ago.”

 

It was an exaggeration, but he didn’t protest. “Sorry,” he said quietly.

 

She made a frustrated noise and only narrowly refrained from stamping her foot like a spoilt child. “I’m not complaining, Steve! But if you’re not interested, it isn’t very sporting of you to keep leading me on, is it?”

 

His eyebrows rose until they almost met his hairline. “Are you kidding? Leading you—I— _Peggy_. I’m _very_ interested. I thought that was pretty clear.”

 

“Then why on earth haven’t you _acted_ on it?”

 

“Well,” he said drolly, “first there was this war over in Europe…”

 

She swatted his chest, with more affection than genuine anger.

 

“Does it have to be right this second?” he asked plaintively. “I thought we were having fun. We never got to do this before. Are we in some kind of a hurry?”

 

“I’d hardly call seventy years a hurry,” she said archly, gathering a very English superiority around her like an armoured cloak.

 

If he was at all fazed by the change in her tone, he didn’t show it. “I figured it’d happen when it happened,” he said simply.

 

As she started to reply, he cut her off with a kiss, crowding her up against the front door. Two could play at that game, she thought; she braced against the door jamb with her foot, put both hands on his shoulders, and hoisted herself up, all without breaking the kiss. She licked into his mouth, ruthlessly, tangling her fingers in his hair; he made a helpless, greedy noise, and pressed her against the door, pinning her with his hips. When he did, she was gratified to note that she wasn’t the only one who was getting worked up by all of this kissing.

 

The door creaked as Steve pulled back, insisting, “It’s not happening _tonight_.” However, he sounded slightly less sure of himself than he had a moment ago.

 

“Spoilsport,” she murmured, smiling against his lips.

 

*

 

True to his word, Steve slept on the couch that night.

 

He was still sleeping the next morning when Peggy tiptoed past on her way to the bathroom.

 

He looked incredibly uncomfortable, but he was breathing deeply and even snoring a little, his lips parted ever so slightly. He’d managed to solve the relative disparity between his height and the length of the couch by resting one foot on the floor, and hitching his other leg over the armrest. He was splayed out, head back, limbs floppy, as if he had been suddenly knocked out while standing and fallen backwards onto the cushions.

 

The sheet was twisted up around his narrow waist and the scrap of a blanket barely covered him, one long, pale leg exposed all the way up to the hem of his shorts. She imagined kneeling to press a kiss against the smooth muscle of his thigh—then quickly redirected her gaze, her face warming.

 

His fair hair was mussed, sticking up all over like dandelion fluff. She hesitated only briefly before reaching down to smooth it back into place. Steve’s snoring abated momentarily; his mouth tightened, his eyebrows quirked, but he didn’t stir or open his eyes. In that instant of stillness, she could see the old Steve Rogers more clearly than ever: those last, lingering markers of softness, of vulnerability—what a less observant person might have called weakness.

 

Peggy resisted the urge to take further liberties.

 

*

 

When she emerged from the bathroom, freshly showered and smartened up, Steve was already awake and dressed, sheets and blanket neatly folded and stacked on the couch. He sat at her desk, hunched over her laptop, typing furiously.

 

“Good morning,” she said, taking in the scene. She pictured him sitting exactly like this in his apartment in Brooklyn, answering her emails.

 

“Morning.” He smiled at her over his shoulder. “I made coffee.”

 

“Bless your soul,” said Peggy fervently.

 

“You sleep okay?”

 

“Better than you, I imagine.” She indicated the couch.

 

He gave a dismissive wave. “It was fine.”

 

She noticed he had a bowl and spoon in front of him, flecked with the remnants of what looked like porridge. “You’ve had breakfast, I see.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“There’s no need to apologize for my deficiencies as a hostess.” She edged up beside him and collected the bowl, peeking at the monitor as she did so; he appeared to be navigating his way through an assortment of tabs on the SHIELD website. “What would you like to do today?” Peggy knew perfectly well what _she_ wanted to spend the day doing, but she felt that the next move really ought to be Steve’s.

 

“I could take you out on the bike? Nice weather for it.”

 

The idea held some appeal. She’d ridden on the back of Steve’s motorbike during the war, only once—a quick lift to save her a long walk in the pouring rain—but it was a cold, mud-spattered journey, over rugged terrain, and could hardly have been considered romantic.

 

“That sounds perfect. I do have some schoolwork I’d like to get done, but after that?”

 

“Sure. I can entertain myself for a couple of hours. I’ll go for a run or something.”

 

Peggy went into the kitchen, washed the bowl and spoon, and poured herself a cup of coffee, feeling rather domestic and unnervingly satisfied about it. She’d never been given to flights of fancy, but while she stirred the milk into her coffee, she allowed herself to lapse into a frivolous, girlish daydream: coming home to Steve every evening. Or—better still—waking up beside him every morning.

 

When she went back to the living room, Steve was still sitting in her chair, peering at the wall behind her desk.

 

“You liked it,” he observed, pointing.

 

Peggy had forgotten about the Kinnell poem, tacked to the bulletin board. “I did. Who would have guessed Captain America was such a profound literary scholar?” she teased.

 

“I went through a period, after I got here, where I thought if I just read enough, I’d have all the answers.”

 

“Answers to what?”

 

Steve shrugged philosophically.

 

“It’s lovely.”

 

“You never said.”

 

“E-mail is a _vile_ way to communicate.”

 

He gave a chuckle.

 

She set her coffee down on the desk. “I had to stick it up there,” she confessed, “because I couldn’t stop reading it.”

 

Steve nodded.

 

Peggy’s hand rested lightly on the back of his neck. She ran her fingers over the short blond hairs there; they were finer than one might expect, softer.

 

He dipped his head forward—the sudden movement startled her, and she yanked her hand back, as if his skin were electrified.

 

“Uhh,” he said.

 

“I’m sorry,” she said reflexively.

 

“No, it’s… do it again?”

 

Her heart gave a little leap as she repeated the motion more deliberately, slowly stroking up along the corded muscle and into the divot at the base of his skull. She watched a slight but very definite shudder ripple through his frame.

 

“How’s that?” she asked.

 

“ _Really_ good,” he murmured, in a tone so heartfelt that she couldn’t help but smile. It seemed quite an easy thing to rest her hands on his shoulders, press a kiss into his hair. The muscle under her palms was hard as stone.

 

“You’re tense,” she observed, kneading a little.

 

“Nervous,” he corrected.

 

“Oh, come now. I’m not the first woman to touch you. It seems as though they’re _always_ touching you,” she added, slightly more acerbic than she’d intended. “That waitress last night very nearly sat in your lap.”

 

Steve exhaled forcefully. “I can’t exactly help that. Girls like me.”

 

“Hmm, yes.” She tightened her grip, digging her nails in. “I suppose I can’t blame them for trying. Though it does seem rather in poor taste to do it right in front of your date.”

 

“They don’t mean any harm. They just don’t know that I’m your…”

 

“You’re my _what_ , exactly?”

 

He tipped his head back and looked up at her. “Whatever you want me to be,” he said earnestly.

 

She felt feverish, her knees turning to water. “Steve…”

 

He straightened in the chair and put his hands back on the keyboard. “They only like me because of how I look,” he said softly.

 

Peggy knew that wasn’t true. Even before the supersoldier treatment, Steve had radiated something that drew people to him: a kindness, born of respect; a quiet, dignified conviction; a determined optimism, in the face of trials that would have broken a lesser man. There was a reason that his men had followed him into battle, and it wasn’t because of his size. There was a reason Abraham Erskine had chosen him, a reason _she_ had chosen him.

 

“I’ve always liked you,” she said softly.

 

He shifted, folding his arms over his chest, his shoulders bunching and flexing under her hands. “Even when I was small?”

 

She leaned down to whisper in his ear, as though confessing a secret: “ _Especially_ when you were small.”

 

The next part happened far too quickly, the way accidents do. He turned and reached for her—and suddenly she was in his lap, startled, off-balance. Before she’d had time either to make a sound or to right herself, his mouth was on hers, hungry and hot. She felt her eyes flutter closed and her toes curl; she pressed into him, matching his urgency, her hands clutching possessively at his shirt before she regained enough presence of mind to slide them upwards, anchoring one at his shoulder and sinking the other into his hair. Steve had both hands at her waist to keep her from falling, and she was distantly aware of the chair groaning beneath their combined weight. It didn’t matter—she needed this too much to stop. This was what she’d waited for, longed for, awakened in the dark of night hungry for.

 

It was Steve who finally broke the kiss, still holding her close. “You were right about one thing,” he told her, breathing shallow against her cheek.

 

“Only one?” she retorted.

 

He stood with her in his arms in a single, fluid motion. (Peggy, who had grown rather habituated to his feats of athleticism, had to admit it was still rather thrilling.)

 

“One thing in particular,” he amended, carrying her towards the bedroom. “Seventy years is a long enough wait.”


	12. Straighten Up and Fly Right

Rather than tumbling them both passionately onto the bed, Steve set her down carefully beside it, then glanced around, seemingly at a loss. Peggy curved her hands over his hips and leaned in, pressing herself against his chest and peering up at him.

 

“You’ve done this before,” she said encouragingly, running her hands up and down his sides. “Haven’t you?”

 

He nodded, looking slightly sheepish. “It isn’t that,” he said. “It’s just… I’ve thought about this a long time. I wanted it to be…”

 

She nodded. “I know.” She hooked her fingers through the belt loops of his jeans and guided him to sit on the bed. “I’ve thought about you, too,” she assured him, leaning down to kiss him while undoing the buttons on his shirt. He caught up to her quickly—reaching down to untuck both shirt and undershirt, and tug the whole lot over his head and off.

 

Peggy’s breath caught in her throat. She had seen him shirtless before, of course—but in a professional, clinical setting, where it was hardly appropriate even to look her fill, let alone touch (not that it had stopped her in the moment).

 

Now, though, he was hers to consume, to devour, and she did so with all of her senses—enjoying the contrast of glossy red fingernails and creamy skin, setting first her lips and then her teeth against muscle as smooth and firm as marble. He was wonderfully responsive, tensing and flushing under even the lightest touch.

 

“All right?” she asked, canting her head to look at his face.

 

He looked drunk—mouth hanging open, eyes glazed and heavy-lidded. “Yeah,” he said softly.

 

He shifted, sliding further back on the bed, still sitting. Peggy took this as an invitation to climb up, straddling his hips and bracing herself against his chest with her forearms. She couldn’t help lavishing extra affection on those traces of his smaller self that still remained: his narrow waist, his slender wrists, the long line of his nose.

 

“You’re so beautiful,” she murmured, nipping at his collarbone.

 

She hadn’t intended to say it, and she felt rather than heard his embarrassed chuckle. “I thought that was my line.”

 

“Oh, is there a script?” she inquired.

 

“Uh-huh. You threw it out the window when you told me off for not taking you to bed.”

 

“It was a _very_ lonely night,” she said gravely, rocking back to pull her sweater up over her head.

 

He paused, eyes widening at the sight of her brassiere, and swallowed audibly. Peggy thanked her lucky stars for making the appropriate choice in undergarments that morning—she was sporting a highly architectural and somewhat stifling confection of crimson lace, obviously designed to be seen and enjoyed. And, with any luck, removed quickly.

 

“ _Wow_ ,” he breathed.

 

She couldn’t help preening a little at that. “Thank you.”

 

But rather than taking the next logical step, he continued to kiss her, slowly, tasting her mouth as though it were something delicious and perfectly ripe. He traced over her body lightly with his fingertips, sketching every curve, every hollow, deliberately, _maddeningly_.

 

When she reached around to unhook the clasp, he made a disapproving noise and pushed her hand away. A minute later, when her fingers returned to the spot, he grasped both of her wrists in one large hand and pinned them tidily at the small of her back.

 

In a move that was more instinct than planning, Peggy twisted at the waist, hooked her leg around his, and effected a very tidy sacrifice throw, rolling them both so that she landed on her back with Steve kneeling over her.

 

This afforded her the time she needed to wriggle her hands free, and to unclasp and discard the evil balconette, whipping it over Steve’s shoulder with rather more enthusiasm than was strictly called for.

 

“It’s not a race,” he told her, amused.

 

She dug her nails into the small of his bare back, tugging him down. He rocked his hips obligingly—she could feel him through his trousers, an insistent press against the crease of her thigh and groin, the friction too much and not enough all at once.

 

“You should—we need a—” She was suddenly breathless, dizzy with anticipation; she couldn’t seem to make the words line up.

 

“In my pocket,” he assured her, mouthing a trail down her throat.

 

“What about ‘it’ll happen when it happens’?”

 

“Like they say in the Boy Scouts: always be prepared.” He pressed a kiss into her cleavage, then paused, breathing hot against her skin. “I only have one, though,” he confessed, the words muffled in a way that would have been comical if not for her intense vexation. “Maybe I ought to run to the drugstore.”

 

“Such a gentleman,” she murmured, pleased by the implications of his suggestion. Combing her fingers through his hair, she continued, “I was never a Boy Scout, but you’ll find my bedside table well stocked.”

 

His gaze flicked up to her face. “College life is treating you all right, I guess?” he inquired, smirking.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, and pointed emphatically to the nightstand.

 

He leaned across her to reach it, the delicious bulk of him pressing her down into the mattress. She wrapped her leg around his waist, luxuriating in the scorch and slide of his bare chest against hers.

 

He exhaled sharply. “That’s distracting.”

 

“That was the idea, yes.”

 

He rummaged in the drawer for a moment before inquiring, “Is this all you have?”

 

“There are _twenty-four_ condoms in that box. Unless you plan to wear them four at a go—”

 

“These aren’t the ones I normally use,” he interjected, setting the box down on the nightstand.

 

“Perhaps it’s time to expand your repertoire, darling,” she suggested, craning her neck in an effort to capture his mouth before he could elaborate any further on how he came to have a preference in prophylactics. Now was _not_ the time to exchange resumés.

 

“No, but they…” He was turning pink now; it radiated down his throat and over his chest and stomach. “They don’t fit.”

 

“Ah.” Her amusement mingled with curiosity and mild trepidation. “I see.”

 

He rolled to his feet gracefully, leaving her feeling so abruptly bereft that she actually _sighed_ —loudly, feelingly, and with a bit of a whine at the end.

 

Peggy had never sighed over a man, or the lack of one in her bed, in her entire life. It was an absolutely shameful development.

 

Steve, meanwhile, either had not observed or was courteously ignoring the sigh. “I’ll just—I’ll go to the—I’ll be right back,” he said, bending down to collect his shirt and undershirt.

 

She sat up, and had to fight the instinct to cover her breasts. Instead, she drew herself up proudly and, summoning her most commanding tone, said, “Steven Rogers!”

 

He froze, dropped the shirts, then straightened up, hands at his sides. She was gratified to note that he couldn’t help but stare; for his part, with his kiss-reddened mouth and mussed hair, he looked deliciously debauched. She’d waited forever to see him like this, and she was through with waiting.

 

“I refuse to be put off any longer,” she informed him, planting her hands on her hips. “Get back here _immediately_.”

 

“Yes ma’am,” he snapped back. In an instant, he had settled beside her on the bed, propping himself up on his elbow.

 

“Good man.” She rewarded him with a kiss, slipping her hand into the pocket of his jeans as she did so. “Now,” she said sternly, brandishing the foil packet, “I assume you know where this goes?”

 

He nodded and—delightfully, incongruously— _blushed_.

 

“Right, then. You have one shot, Captain. I suggest you take it.”

 

Steve, ever the good soldier, followed orders.

 

*

 

The room was chilly, watery afternoon light filtering in through the frozen condensation glittering on the window. Peggy shifted a little, stretching out sore muscles; the heavy, pleasant ache of exertion, and hard use after long inactivity. She tugged the quilt up to cover her bare shoulders and settled again.

 

Behind her, Steve stirred and tightened his arm around her waist reflexively, pulling her closer. He was still gloriously naked, his body smooth and warm as sun-heated stone, and he made a pleased sound as she pressed against him.

 

“Thank you,” he murmured.

 

“Don’t be asinine,” she said fondly, turning to face him. “What on earth are you _thanking_ me for?”

 

“Letting me sleep in your big, comfortable bed instead of on the doll furniture in your living room?”

 

Peggy politely refrained from pointing out that he _could_ have been in her bed the night before. “You said it was fine.”

 

“It was fine. This is better.”

 

“This is _not_ the level of hospitality I typically show to my guests.”

 

“You say that, but there’s a pretty big box of rubbers over here.”

 

She gave a squeal of outrage, and pinched his leg—or rather, she tried to, but it turned out to be about as effective as pinching a marble statue.

 

“Ow,” he said, very unconvincingly.

 

“Is this what you’re going to be like from now on?”

 

“Hilarious?”

 

“Insufferably pleased with yourself.”

 

“That too, a little bit. Yeah. I think so.” He smiled, tracing over her cheek and jaw with a single fingertip. “Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are?”

 

“Of course I do,” she said smartly. “I’m well acquainted with the use of the mirror. Why do men say things like that?”

 

He looked momentarily stymied, but rallied with, “Well, I guess what I meant to say was that you’re so pretty that—”

 

“‘Pretty’? You ‘guess’? I was ‘gorgeous’ a moment ago. Are you downgrading me because I dared to question you?”

 

“What? No, I—Peggy, come on!”

 

She bit back a smile; she hadn’t been able to fluster Steve this much since she’d caught him in a clinch with a certain Private Lorraine, and she was probably enjoying his distress more than was strictly sporting. She relished having the upper hand again, after all this time.

 

“What I’m trying to say is—I mean, I—I have nothing but respect and—”

 

“I think you’re doing a lot of talking to avoid saying what you really want to say,” she said mockingly, echoing his words from their conversation in the SHIELD cafeteria.

 

He had a very resolute look now: eyebrows lowered, jaw muscles tight. “Peggy.” He said it in a deep, firm, _I’m-Captain-America_ sort of voice.

 

“Yes, Steve?”

 

“I’m in love with you.”

 

The words gave her a jolt in the pit of her stomach, as though she’d swallowed a live wire. Now it was Peggy’s turn to grasp and stammer, before finally settling on, “Pardon?”

 

Steve cleared his throat loudly, but didn’t repeat the statement.

 

Peggy wanted to say it back, but her lips didn’t seem able to form themselves around the words. She was so accustomed to keeping her feelings closely guarded that it was as though her emotional muscles had atrophied.

 

So instead she froze, with her mouth hanging open (like a great, useless trout, she rather thought), watching Steve square his shoulders as though he were facing a firing squad.

 

In the end, she did the only thing she could think of: she smiled, then leaned in and kissed him softly.

 

“Darling,” she said against his lips, “I think we should have this conversation when we have clothes on. Don’t you?”

 

He returned the kiss with enthusiasm, shifting against her in a way that made it _quite_ clear his remarkable stamina was not limited to the battlefield. It was a not-unwelcome, but very inconvenient, development.

 

“ _Steve_. Already?”

 

“We’re not even close to breaking my all-time record.”

 

“Good heavens,” she declared.

 

“I tried to warn you. Should’ve let me go to the drugstore.”

 

“And you will,” she told him, with a wicked grin, pushing him onto his back and trailing kisses down his chest to his stomach. “ _After_ I get you sorted.”

 

There was more than one thing a mouth was for, after all, even if she couldn’t seem to make hers speak.

 

*

 

By the time they were both finally out of bed and dressed, the sun was already setting, making it far too cold for a leisurely motorbike ride.

 

Much to Peggy’s consternation, Steve insisted on going on his gentleman’s errand unaccompanied. “You have homework,” he reminded her, adding cheekily, “It better be done when I get back with the reinforcements.”

 

He was gone for over an hour—long enough that she began to wonder if he might be put off by her response (or lack thereof) to his earnest declaration. It would be awful, if he thought she didn’t… She resolved to say it as soon as he came back.

 

However, when he charged through the front door, pink with the cold, he proceeded to kiss her as though they’d been apart for months. Even if her lips had been free for speaking, she reasoned, it was hardly the time now; he would think she was just caught up in the moment, talking nonsense.

 

They didn’t even make it as far as the bedroom, managing—with a bit of skillful maneuvering—to fit together on the comically tiny couch. (Peggy was obliged to concede that an artist’s grasp of spatial relations had a variety of delightful applications.) Unlike the first time, their coupling was quick and a bit rough—shameless biting and scratching on both sides, pure white heat and sparks, utterly superb.

 

“There’s a welcome a fellow could get used to,” said Steve, afterwards, planting a noisy kiss on her cheek.

 

Breathless and rather love-drunk, Peggy collapsed onto his broad chest and made a vaguely appreciative exhalation. The couch was in a different place in the room than it had been, and at some point a lamp had been knocked over. She knew that her neighbours must have heard them, but she couldn’t quite muster the energy to be embarrassed.

 

Doodling on her back with a single, aimless fingertip, he inquired, “How’s the homework going?”

 

“It isn’t,” she admitted. “You mustn’t make a habit of visiting, or I’m going to plough the semester.”

 

“That… means something different here than it does where you’re from.”

 

“Does it?”

 

“Yeah. Kinda dirty.”

 

Peggy adopted an American drawl. “I’m gonna flunk out of school, pal.”

 

“I’ll write you a note, buddy,” he said dryly.

 

“Do you have personalized stationery? _From the Patriotic Desk of Captain America?_ ‘To whom it may concern, kindly excuse Margaret from all classwork indefinitely, as she provides an invaluable source of morale to your faithful servant—who is, incidentally, a national treasure.’”

 

“And you say you’re no good at writing letters.”

 

“I didn’t say I wasn’t any good, I said it was vile. Besides, this is _much_ nicer than an e-mail.” As if to illustrate, she trailed her hand lightly down his side, the muscles fluttering beneath her fingertips. “Don’t you agree, darling?”

 

“Leading question.” He kissed the top of her head. “I like it when you call me that.”

 

“Darling,” she repeated, sliding her hands under his back and giving him a squeeze. “And you’re all mine, aren’t you?”

 

She’d meant to tease him, making it another leading question, but he replied, “Yeah,” in a dreamy sort of voice.

 

Sensing that she was on the verge of losing her head entirely, Peggy extricated herself from his embrace and stood up. Steve gave a disappointed whinge that was rather unbecoming of a national treasure.

 

“Not all of us have your endurance,” she observed, stepping into her jeans and pulling them up. “I’m absolutely famished. Come along and keep me company while I make our tea.”

 

*

 

Peggy had never been much use in the kitchen, but she’d planned ahead for the weekend, reasoning that even she could manage scrambled eggs and bacon.

 

Steve set up the laptop on the kitchen counter, and Peggy cooked while he took her through a précis of popular music. This included such highlights as rock, folk, funk, and the so-called British Invasion (Peggy thought this an offensive term for a gang of unruly youths sporting foppish clothing and shaggy haircuts).

 

He gave her a sampling of Tony's favourite type of music, something called heavy metal—which Peggy found very apt, as it felt poisonous and corrosive in the ear. "It's better with headphones," Steve explained. "I like it sometimes when I’m working out. But a lot of it is just yelling."

 

Pepper's preference was for an entity called Lady Gaga, although who or what _that_ might be, Peggy couldn't quite tell. It sounded like the kind of music computers might make—which made Tony's apparent disdain for it somewhat surprising—but it wasn't unpleasant, although she couldn't picture herself dancing to it.

 

“It sounds as though you spend rather a lot of time with them,” she mused.

 

“Is there something you want to say about it?” he inquired.

 

“Yes. I’ve just said it. Why do you ask?”

 

“I think it’s important for us to communicate.”

 

“How very diplomatically you phrase that, darling.” She moved closer, and ran her fingernails lightly along his arm. “You mean that I should stop being so bloody polite, and just tell you what I'm after.”

 

“I'd appreciate that,” said Steve sincerely.

 

“All right. But you must do the same.”

 

“Oh, I’ll tell you what I’m after,” he murmured, pressing against her in a way that left little room for doubt. She had just enough time to turn off the stove before he insisted on her complete attention, maneuvering her up onto the (fortunately clean) counter.

 

It was hard to believe that the night before, she’d actually been complaining about Steve _refusing_ to make love to her. Now, it seemed to be his primary goal.

 

As friends, they’d already proven their compatibility; as a lover, Steve was inventive, thoughtful, determined, passionate, and generous, just as he was in every other aspect of his life.

 

Peggy, for her part, had completely given over. She could see how people lost their heads over the pursuit of this feeling, made fools of themselves for it, made themselves drunk and sick with it. She knew it was dangerous, reckless, but she wanted to gorge herself on Steve—to consume him, utterly, and be consumed in return.

 

However, there was more than one type of hunger that demanded to be satisfied, and supper had congealed to an inedible mess by the time they’d finished. Peggy conceded defeat and called for takeout.

 

Peggy had been introduced to Thai food by her school friends; it was, in all likelihood, her second favourite thing about the 21st century. She was pleased to discover that Steve liked it too—though slightly horrified to learn that he enjoyed sushi even more.

 

“You’ll get worms!” she exclaimed. It was after they’d eaten; they were sitting on the couch, Peggy’s feet resting in Steve’s lap.

 

He flapped a hand dismissively. “It’s fine, it’s safe. They freeze it or something, kills all the germs.”

 

“All the same, I’d rather not chance it.”

 

“It’s hardly the most dangerous thing I do in a given day,” he pointed out, quite reasonably.

 

“And what _is_ the most dangerous thing you do in a given day, Captain?”

 

“Disagreeing with you,” he retorted, and poked the sole of her foot.

 

Peggy made an affronted noise and retracted her legs.

 

Steve chuckled. “You make that face all you want, but you shot me once.”

 

“ _At_ you. I shot _at_ you. And only because I was—”

 

“Jealous?”

 

“Furious. Insulted, by your suggestion that Howard flirting with me was on the same level as what you did with that girl.”

 

“Jealous, too, though. Come on, admit it.”

 

She knew he was only teasing, but Peggy was starting to feel genuinely annoyed. “Was it unreasonable of me, to be angry that we made a date that you had no intention of keeping?” she demanded.

 

Steve’s face lost its mischievous look. “Not unreasonable,” he said quietly, and she knew what he must be thinking of.

 

She moved closer, kneeling on the couch cushion to wrap her arms around his shoulders. She knew exactly how he felt: mostly whole, but still exposed in places, any one of which could be brushed accidentally and made to sting. There wasn’t anything that could heal those raw patches, except time. They would just need to be careful with each other.

 

“We’re here now,” she murmured, kissing his temple, his cheek, his jaw. “And we won’t waste any more time.”

 

He turned his head and pressed a kiss to her lips, soft and sweet, cupping her cheek in his palm. “No more time wasting,” he agreed.

 

“You may take me to bed now, if you like,” she said regally.

 

As it turned out, Steve liked that just fine.

 

*

 

The sky outside was still dark when Peggy woke to see Steve moving purposefully around the room.

 

“Okay,” she heard him say quietly, and then: “Now?” His right shoulder was hunched, his head cocked at an odd angle; he was talking on his mobile phone, and dressing at the same time.

 

She sat up, pulling the covers around her, and waited for him to sign off before asking, “What is it?”

 

“Duty calls.” He sat on the edge of the bed and began pulling his socks on. “Natasha’s at the airfield.”

 

“I suspected as much. I don’t suppose you’re allowed to say any more than that?”

 

“Sorry,” he said, sounding genuinely regretful.

 

Peggy felt a sudden pang of—not jealousy, exactly, but rather, envy. There had been a time when she’d been a cornerstone of Steve’s professional world; one of the reasons she’d grown to admire him had been his extraordinary and tireless dedication to his work. She hadn’t considered how being completely separated from that aspect of his life would feel.

 

She didn’t say a word, but it must have shown on her face because Steve stopped what he was doing and leaned in towards her. “Bad timing,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her cheek softly.

 

She tugged on his shirt collar, pulling him into a kiss. “If you’re going to sneak out of here in the middle of the night with your trousers undone,” she scolded, “you might at least have the decency to say goodbye properly.”

 

“It’s oh-five-hundred, and they’re buttoned,” he retorted. “And I would have woken you up.”

 

“I should think so.”

 

“Definitely,” he asserted, nosing at her shoulder. “Hmm.”

 

His breath against her bare skin was enough to stoke the embers of longing still smouldering in the pit of her stomach. She pulled back a little, and turned her face aside—there was no point in their getting worked up unnecessarily.

 

“ _Must_ you have the last word?” she demanded, allowing some of the frustration she felt to creep into her voice.

 

He flashed her a self-assured grin that seemed more like a caricature of himself than anything. “Yep.”

 

“Clear off and let me sleep, won’t you?”

 

He curled an arm around her waist and tucked her against his chest, his chin resting on the top of her head. She folded herself against him and closed her eyes, breathing him in. She could feel herself sliding back into sleep, lulled by the strong, steady rhythm of his heart. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so safe, so sheltered, so… loved.

 

“Hey,” he said softly. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

 

The question caught her mid-yawn, but she managed to end it on an interrogative note.

 

“Tony’s having people over. He said I could bring a guest. Pepper will be there,” he said, as though she might need added incentive to be persuaded.

 

“That would be lovely. Just as long as no one expects me to cook.”

 

“I think it’ll probably be catered.”

 

She petted his forearm. “Only joking, darling.”

 

“I love you,” he said, quiet and hopeful.

 

Neither of them spoke again for a moment.

 

Finally, she squeezed his arm and said, “Be careful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated for quite a while about whether or not to include a more graphic sex scene in this chapter. I hadn't intended it originally, but I did write one, just to see how it would go. I decided in the end that it didn't really fit with the overall tone of the piece, and that the character development I wanted to do had to take precedence.
> 
> However! For those of you who absolutely must have the sex scene, I will post it as a deleted scene once it's a little more polished, hopefully in the next few days.
> 
> Update: [The sex has arrived!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1347334)


	13. Early One Morning

In the first week after Steve’s visit, the two of them reached a fever pitch of flirtation via email and FlagUp.

 

It started almost right away, first thing Monday morning. Peggy was at her laptop with her mug of tea, giving one of her assignments a last look-over, when Steve’s usual email arrived. She was pleased, however, to note a slight change in tone:

 

_Good morning, beautiful. Hope you slept well. How’s the weather today?_

 

Peggy was armed and ready; she’d spent the evening before transferring her CD collection onto her laptop. Her first volley was in the form of a MP4 of Billie Holiday singing “Stormy Weather.”

 

Steve’s response came just as she was about to pack her laptop into her bag. It was an image file: a little drawing of himself, holding an umbrella over her head while she carried an armload of books. Cartoon Steve looked completely besotted, little hearts trailing in his wake. Cartoon Peggy looked, all things considered, rather pleased with herself. It was an accurate assessment.

 

By the time Peggy took her usual seat next to Charlotte in class, she could barely contain her good humour.

 

“Good weekend?” asked Charlotte.

 

“Lovely, thanks,” was Peggy’s chipper response. “And yours?”

 

“You know me. It’s not Monday morning unless I’m walking funny and I have to change the sheets.”

 

Peggy couldn’t quite hold back a sly grin.

 

Charlotte pounced, exclaiming, “Yeah! I _knew_ that had to be the guy from home. Good job!”

 

Peggy dutifully accepted the offered high-five. She remembered Tony reacting in a similar way, once upon a time, and couldn’t help wondering whether this was now the standard greeting to a friend who’d had a romantic dalliance.

 

“So how long is he in town for?”

 

“He left yesterday. Just a quick visit, he has a busy schedule.”

 

“I bet. Model or pro athlete?”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“I know I’ve seen his face _somewhere_.”

 

_On page 39 of your textbook, my dear_ , Peggy wanted to say. (Honestly, the girl was never going to pass her exams if she didn’t learn to pay attention to what she was reading.)

 

Instead, she took a plausible amount of time to consider and discard several cover stories before settling on, “Actually, you may very well have. He’s a film actor.” It was barely an untruth—Steve had made two rather dismal films during his ‘dancing monkey’ days. She embroidered the statement further with, “Only small roles so far, but he’s very talented.” Which Steve absolutely was _not_ , at least in the film acting department, but it was what the supportive sweetheart of an aspiring young movie star would be expected to say. “He’s in New York this week for an audition.” Just enough detail to be credible, and hopefully forgettable.

 

Charlotte seemed mollified by this, and Peggy was able to steer the conversation onto the topic of her first American Thanksgiving: holiday traditions, food and drink, related etiquette—and, of course, what one ought to wear.

 

*

 

Peggy was trying to keep things in perspective. After all, two days—one spent mostly in bed—didn’t exactly make for sound footing, regardless of who might have said what. She knew that she needed to stop dreaming and come down.

 

But every time she thought back on the events of the weekend, she felt it anew: the same electric charge, starting in the pit of her stomach and growing, spreading warmth through her entire body until she felt herself blushing furiously. Her response to the happy little FlagUp mailbox chime had become positively Pavlovian.

 

Steve sent mostly photos of his surroundings, his artist’s eye evident in the way he wielded the camera on his phone. His written replies were becoming less frequent now, more perfunctory.

 

Late one night, she drafted a rather petty missive— _I hope Natasha is not keeping you too busy_ —then deleted without sending, annoyed with herself for even considering it.

 

Instead, she sent a few more songs from her collection, and a picture of herself that Charlotte had taken at a fancy dress party. _She keeps badgering me to sign up for Facebook,_ Peggy wrote, _but it is enough work maintaining my cover in person._

 

In the picture, Peggy was dressed as a cat: oversized black sweater, black leggings, mascara whiskers on her cheeks, and store-bought velvet ears. (She could have easily put together a much more elaborate and convincing disguise, of course, but the aim was _not_ to stand out.) She was leaning against a doorjamb with her hip cocked and her chest sticking out, giving the camera a come-hither look. She and Charlotte had been taking silly pictures of each other; she’d meant the pose as a sort of mocking homage to cheesecake photography, but she hadn’t quite hit the parodic note she wanted in the moment when the shutter snapped.

 

The flash had washed her out a little, but overall, Peggy felt it was quite a flattering photo.

 

Steve’s reply consisted of one word: _Meow!_

 

Friday afternoon brought a photo of a battered duffel bag, sitting on tarmac, and a sweet and sad folk refrain about _leavin’ on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again…_ He didn’t say where he was off to, and Peggy didn’t ask. In the top left-hand corner of the snapshot, the heel of a woman’s boot was clearly visible.

 

_Do take care_ , she wrote. She’d taken to signing her notes _xo Peggy_ , a breezy stand-in for what was best said in person.

 

_Will do_ , Steve wrote back, unsigned. After that, his replies stopped altogether.

 

*

 

The week before Thanksgiving, Peggy still hadn’t heard from Steve about the details of the weekend. Pepper emailed to say that she would be picking Peggy up from school. _Steve thinks the bike ride might be a little cold_ , she wrote, _and this way we can get caught up._

 

The excuse seemed rather glib. Peggy wondered if it were true, and if so, why Steve hadn’t written or called to tell her personally. She tried to ignore the sharp twist in the pit of her stomach. He was busy, of course; she ought to know, after all, how tasking the job of being Captain America could be. She told herself she was being irrational—and, even worse, childish.

 

_What can I bring?_ she wrote back to Pepper.

 

_Just yourself_ , Pepper replied. _Looking forward to it!_

 

It turned out that Peggy’s wardrobe had expanded exponentially since she’d arrived, making it impossible to fit everything she wanted to bring for the weekend into her small bag. And so it was that Peggy wound up trudging uphill, through the freshly-fallen snow, pulling a new wheeled suitcase in her wake.

 

As she turned onto her street, Barton, who had been walking about ten paces behind her with his hands in his coat pockets, continued on.

 

“Proper gentleman, aren’t you?” she called after him—though in point of fact the empty case wasn’t heavy, and she’d never been the type to submit to a man’s uninvited assistance.

 

He didn’t break stride, but she thought she heard something like a derisive cackle.

 

*

 

Wednesday afternoon, against her better judgement, Peggy sent Steve another email.

 

_Darling,_ she wrote, _I’ve been listening to the music you recommended,_ _and thinking of you, to the further detriment of my schoolwork. I might need you to write me that note after all! I hope you’re keeping well, and I look forward to seeing you this weekend. The last evening you were here was absolutely perfect, and in spite of what I might say (or not say) I am quite sincere when I sign myself, with great affection,_

_Yours, always yours,_

_Peggy_

_P.S. The weather here is wretched. There is supposed to be a snowstorm this weekend. I thought you might like to know._

 

There was no reply.

 

*

 

In the middle of the night, Peggy was awakened by a staccato knock at her front door. She fumbled on her robe and slippers and went to peer through the peephole.

 

“Barton? What on earth—”

 

“Open the door, please.”

 

She turned the bolt and stepped away, allowing him to enter. He was wearing a strange sort of outfit, all black with black gloves; her suspicions were confirmed when she spotted the SHIELD patch on the shoulder of his jacket.

 

“I take it this is an official visit?” she asked, trying not to sound as alarmed as she was.

 

He nodded. “Get dressed and pack a bag.”

 

She bristled. “I’m a civilian, you can’t give me orders. Tell me what’s going on first.”

 

He pointed in the direction of the bedroom. “You dress, I’ll talk.”

 

There had been another IED, this time in a parking garage underneath a television station where Steve and Tony had been giving an interview. Tony, being Tony, had felt the need to get personally involved; while Steve was coordinating the evacuation, Tony had dismissed the bomb squad and set to work disarming the device on his own. There had been an issue with the earpieces they used to communicate, so the chain of events that followed was unclear—but at some point, Steve had gone back into the building.

 

The bomb had detonated unexpectedly.

 

“We don’t know exactly what happened yet,” Barton informed her, as she emerged from the bedroom and began pulling on her coat and boots. “Only Rogers and Stark were there, and neither of them can tell us anything right now.”

 

Peggy forced herself to breathe steadily. “How badly are they hurt?”

 

“I guess Stark retracted his gauntlets to work on the bomb. His hands are shredded. Rogers, it looks like he was standing over it. He got them both behind the shield, but not before…” He gestured to his own face and throat. “Shrapnel. They’re picking it out. He’s healing around it, that makes it tough.”

 

“You’re taking me to see him?”

 

Barton shook his head. “The trigger was motion-sensitive, but only at very specific densities—best as we can tell, the high concentration of vibranium in Cap’s shield set it off when he got close. He was most likely the target. And he’s been here recently, which means your safety is compromised.”

 

“Fury knew something like this might happen, didn’t he? _That’s_ why you’ve been tailing me.”

 

Barton’s expression was neutral. “The director wants you in protective custody.”

 

“That’s not acceptable. I want to see Steve—I want to see both of them.”

 

“You’re a civilian, you can’t give me orders,” he replied, echoing her own words. Then, more gently, “I’ll see what I can do when we get back to the city.”

 

*

 

The car was a veritable minefield of fast food wrappers, plastic water bottles, and mismatched articles of clothing. Barton opened the passenger side door and swept an armload of detritus out of the way before gesturing to her to climb in.

 

“Excuse the mess, but I live here.” He heaved her case into the back before easing in behind the wheel.

 

It was as though a door through time had opened briefly, and afforded her a glimpse into her old life: the long, lonely hours of intelligence work. Never feeling safe, never able to trust anyone or leave anything to chance.

 

They sat for a moment in silence, the engine idling. “Has to warm up,” he explained, patting the dashboard.

 

“One sympathizes,” said Peggy, and pulled her hands up into the sleeves of her coat. Outside, fat white snowflakes floated by, suspended in the glow of the car’s headlights.

 

Barton reached past her to the glove box and retrieved a small, rectangular object. “You mind?” he asked, cracking the drivers' side window just a fraction of an inch.

 

“Mind what?”

 

He showed her the item in question, which turned out to be a packet of cigarettes.

 

“Not at all. Actually... may I trouble you?”

 

“You usually do,” he retorted, but tossed the pack to her just the same. A plastic lighter was tucked inside the cardboard sleeve; she couldn’t seem to get the wretched thing to ignite. Finally, Barton leaned over and flicked it on for her.

 

“I didn't think people smoked anymore.” She exhaled forcefully, smoke searing her nostrils.

 

He lit his own cigarette. “I quit a while back. But I've been up and running for about forty hours and I'm mainlining stimulants at this point.” He gestured to a large cup of coffee nestled in the driver’s-side cup-holder.

 

She nodded. “Were you close by? When the...”

 

He shook his head. “Romanoff debriefed me over the phone. Coach has me riding the bench this season. The knee thing, remember?”

 

“Ah, yes. You didn't tell me you were one of the Avengers.”

 

He smirked. “You didn't tell me you were in your nineties.”

 

“A lady's prerogative,” she said dryly.

 

“You look good for your age. You don't look a day over seventy.”

 

“Are you always so appallingly rude, Barton?”

 

He winked at her, and put out the remainder of his cigarette by pinching it between his callused fingers.

 

*

 

She dozed uneasily for most of the drive. Her treacherous subconscious plagued her with visions, stitched together from snippets of the war: Tony with bloody stumps for hands, Steve with a raw-meat face, one or both of them lying dead on an operating table. She dreamed of music, of circling a dance floor in Steve’s arms, only to have him grow cold and damp, or melt into mist and pass through her fingers.

 

She jerked awake with a gasp when a bright light flashed in her eyes. She glanced around groggily, and saw that they were at an intersection.

 

Barton must have turned on the radio while she’d been asleep. The song playing now was one from the playlist Steve had made her, the brassy tune with the hopeful lyrics; it had insinuated itself into her dreams.

 

The acrid taste of the cigarette lingered in the back of her throat, and her mouth was dry, cottony. She suddenly felt as though she might either cry or be sick in her hand, neither of which were acceptable options. She felt around on the passenger door for the window button. Barton must have seen her hand move; the window retracted soundlessly and air rushed in, clean and bitingly cold.

 

“We’re going to the hospital,” he told her. “I cleared it.”

 

“Thank you,” said Peggy gratefully.


	14. Green Eyes

It wasn’t the SHIELD hospital, as Peggy had expected, but a civilian outfit. This made sense in Tony’s case; as a consultant, he wasn’t technically entitled to SHIELD medical care. But Steve being there was rather curious. The SSR had always been very restrictive about giving doctors clearance to even examine Captain America, let alone operate on him. Peggy had been called upon to administer splints or stitches to Steve on more than one occasion, simply by virtue of being the only person on site with both nurse’s training and Project Rebirth clearance. Somehow, she couldn’t see SHIELD being any more forthcoming—especially now that it had been proven his abilities could be transferred.

 

Standing outside Tony’s private room on the burn ward, she turned to ask Barton to clarify—but he’d already turned on his heel, and was striding towards a familiar figure at the end of the hall.

 

Natasha was in civilian clothes, a warm palette that suited her fiery curls: brown boots, dark jeans, caramel-coloured leather jacket. Her eyes met Peggy’s, and both women nodded. Explanations would have to wait, Peggy supposed, and pushed open the door to Tony’s room.

 

Tony was unconscious, propped in a sitting position, bandage-swaddled hands resting in his lap. He was utterly still: limbs slack, head lolling on the pillow, mouth hanging open. The profound sleep of the drugged, unnervingly reminiscent of a more permanent kind of slumber. Peggy had seen it before, many times.

 

Pepper was seated by the bed. Her head was bowed, her lean shoulders folded towards the centre of her body, like a delicate paper sculpture. She gave a start when Peggy entered the room.

 

“I’m so sorry,” was the first thing she said. “I completely forgot, I should have called—”

 

Peggy waved the apology away. “It’s quite all right. Agent Barton came to collect me.”

 

“Did you see Steve?”

 

“I thought I would stop here first.” It was a small half-truth; Barton hadn’t actually given her any choice in the order of the proceedings, presumably because he and Natasha had already fixed their rendezvous point.

 

Pepper nodded gratefully.

 

Peggy took up the empty chair beside her. “How is he?”

 

“They debrided the burns, they’re giving him fluids and something to keep him asleep. He was upset when they brought him in. Screaming. Fighting the doctors.”

 

“How awful.”

 

“He hates hospitals.” She wiped her eyes on a sodden tissue. “I’m sorry, I…”

 

“You mustn’t be. Please.”

 

Peggy’s gaze kept being drawn to Tony; it was so strange not to see him in constant motion, to be able to examine his features without him pulling faces or launching sardonic little barbs. In sleep, the resemblance to Howard was even more striking than usual; it was their eyes that were the most different.

 

“He’s so like his father,” Peggy observed.

 

“Did you know Howard well?”

 

_Well enough to know what he looked like when he was sleeping_ , thought Peggy. Aloud, she said, “As well as one _could_ know a man like Howard.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“He liked his secrets.”

 

Pepper nodded. “I know it’s silly, but when Tony and I got engaged, I kept wondering what his parents would have—”

 

“You’re _engaged_?” Peggy interjected.

 

“No, we—we were. We aren’t now. Tony didn’t…?”

 

Peggy shook her head. “He referred to you as his ‘associate.’ Further to that, I never asked.”

 

“Associate.” Pepper made a weary noise, and rolled her eyes. “Thanks a lot,” she said to Tony’s unconscious form.

 

“Hm. Well, I imagine ‘ex-fiancée’ invites some rather awkward questions.”

 

“It can,” agreed Pepper. “It wasn’t… it was after the attack. He was almost—he—” She hiccuped several times in rapid succession, pressing her closed hand to her lips until it subsided. “He almost died. He gave this whole speech about how he didn’t want to wait anymore, and at first I said yes, because I didn’t want to lose him without… but that’s—it—it’s not a good reason to get married, just because one of you might die suddenly.”

 

It struck Peggy as a perfectly fine reason, but she supposed that was the old wartime mentality showing.

 

“I told him I thought we should wait until things calmed down, and he was upset, and we both said some things, and then we just never…” She sighed. “I thought we’d work it out. It seems so stupid now, all that time apart. It seems like such a _waste_.” She reached out, as if to take his hand, then pulled away without touching him.

 

“Tell him,” said Peggy.

 

Pepper looked at her blankly.

 

“When he wakes up. Tell him what you’ve just told me.”

 

“It’s not a good time, it’s… he’s hurt, and…”

 

Peggy reached over and grasped Pepper’s restless hand, gave it a little squeeze. “Do you still love him?” she asked.

 

“Yes,” said Pepper, the word almost a sob.

 

Peggy squeezed her hand again, harder. “Then tell him that, at least. I’m sure he’d like to hear it.”

 

Pepper said nothing, but leaned into Peggy’s shoulder, as though sheltering herself from a buffeting wind.

 

Peggy pressed back sympathetically, and wondered whether she was trying to convince Pepper, or herself.

 

*

 

Steve, who was on a different ward entirely, didn’t look as bad as Peggy had been expecting. His face and throat were riddled with angry red pockmarks, but she knew from experience that they wouldn’t last.

 

“Hi,” he greeted, his voice a hollow rasp.

 

She crossed to the sink in the corner of the room, taking a paper cup from a nearby dispenser and filling it from the tap. “You promised I wasn’t going to have to cook my own dinner,” she scolded.

 

He nodded, smiling sheepishly. “I bet they have turkey in the cafeteria.”

 

“My first American Thanksgiving, spoilt,” she said sternly, handing him the cup.

 

Steve drained the cup, and she took it from his hand and refilled it. They repeated this ritual twice over before he cleared his throat and asked, “Have you heard anything about Tony?”

 

“He’s asleep. Pepper is with him.” Peggy stroked the top of his head, smoothed his flyaway hair back into place. “How do you feel?”

 

“Not bad. Little tired.”

 

“Small wonder, after all of that.” She leaned down and pressed her lips to his forehead, which was unblemished—thanks to his helmet, she supposed. She stayed like that for longer than she intended, her fingers curving possessively around the back of his neck, until she found herself closing her eyes against an unexpected rush of tears.

 

She pulled away, filled a second cup at the sink, and drank it slowly, giving herself time to regain her composure before looking at him again.

 

He was watching her, blue eyes clear and bottomless under the white lights. “I got your email.”

 

“You must have been quite shocked.” She managed to keep her tone light, but the words had a brittle quality to them. “Perhaps you wondered whether I’d been drinking.” What a hypocrite she was, to give advice to Pepper that she herself was incapable of following!

 

He looked down at his hands. “It was nice,” he said softly.

 

“Steve, I…” she began, sensing the start of one of those disastrous runaway sentences from which it would be impossible to recover.

 

This, mercifully, was cut short by the entrance of Agent Barton. “Our ride’s here,” he announced.

 

Peggy took an instinctive step closer to the bed and Steve. “Ride to where?”

 

“Natasha’s tagging me out.” He’d spoken of his exhaustion earlier, but this was the first time he’d actually let it show in his face, the looseness of his limbs. “She’ll take you to the Tower.”

 

“Stark Tower?”

 

“Yep.” Barton glanced past her and gave Steve a brisk nod, which Steve returned. “What are you still doing here, faker?” he asked. “Nice sunburn. Must be great to be taken off active duty every time you have a bad day at the beach.”

 

“You tell me, pal, you’re the one who had a paid vacation because you skinned your knee.”

 

“Yeah, skinned it through a plate-glass window, without the benefit of bio-enhancements. Unlike _some_ people, Captain Super-Steroids.”

 

Agent Romanoff appeared in the doorway. “Time to go.”

 

“Half a moment,” said Peggy, then looked at both agents pointedly.

 

They exchanged glances, then Romanoff gave an almost imperceptible shrug and stepped out of view. Barton followed a moment later, giving Peggy a nudge as he walked by.

 

She and Steve watched each other awkwardly for a moment before she asked, “Is it very painful?”

 

He shook his head. “Stings a little, is all.”

 

“Is it… would it be all right if I…”

 

By way of reply, Steve grasped her by the shoulder and craned his neck upwards to kiss her—open-mouthed, hot and slick. She knew the angle couldn’t be comfortable for him, and she could feel the heat radiating from his damaged skin. She kept kissing him all the same, careful to keep her hands away from his face, until finally he relaxed his grip and eased back down onto the pillows.

 

“All right,” she breathed, trying not to sound too flustered.

 

Steve made a face. “Since when did you start smoking again?”

 

“Barton is a bad influence.”

 

“Yeah, I bet he really twisted your arm.”

 

“I’m just so _very_ glad you’re all right, darling.” She said it impulsively, the words tumbling out almost on top of one another.

 

He smiled sweetly. “Go. Rest. I’ll come by as soon as they let me out.”

 

*

 

The living quarters at Stark Tower were like nothing Peggy had ever seen. Both the outside of the building and the main lobby were similar in form and substance to the SHIELD campus—glass and steel, imposing statuary, and water features that seemed to defy gravity—but once the doors of the cavernous private elevator opened on the penthouse floor, Peggy found herself in an elegantly-appointed sitting room, including stone walls and a fireplace. The décor had Pepper’s inimitable warmth, but the scale and grandeur of it was obviously all Tony.

 

Natasha walked across the tile floor with an ease that suggested intimacy, stepped behind the bar, and helped herself to a bottled water. She handed a second one to Peggy without a word.

 

“ _Good morning,_ ” said a refined English voice that seemed to emanate from everywhere at once. “ _Please state your name for voiceprint identification._ ”

 

Peggy looked around, trying to discern the source of the voice.

 

“Say your name,” Natasha prompted.

 

“Margaret Carter,” said Peggy, feeling slightly ludicrous.

 

“ _Thank you. Welcome to Stark Tower, Ms. Carter. I hope you will have a pleasant stay. Please stand by for biometric identification._ ”

 

Peggy couldn’t quite place the accent, but was nonetheless intrigued by the prospect of encountering a countryman for the first time since her long sleep. “To whom am I speaking?”

 

“ _Perhaps a more accurate question might be, to what are you speaking?_ ”

 

Natasha sipped her water and spectated. She had a detached mien, as though she were observing a psychology experiment in progress.

 

“I’ve no patience for riddles,” said Peggy, with steel in her voice.

 

“ _My apologies. I did not mean to offend. I am JARVIS, an artificial intelligence created by Mr. Stark._ ”

 

“Artificial,” Peggy repeated, feeling her heart sink a little.

 

“ _Yes. Please place your fingertips on the glass._ ” A section of the windowpane began to glow with a soft, pulsing blue light.

 

Peggy pressed her hand to the glass. It was warm, but not unpleasantly so. “So you’re a sort of… robot majordomo?”

 

“Or an imaginary friend,” said Natasha.

 

“ _My responsibilities include attending to the comfort and security of all of Mr. Stark’s guests._ ”It could have been her imagination, but Peggy thought the voice sounded even more English now than it had when she’d arrived, and slightly insulted by Natasha’s description. “ _Please don’t hesitate to request anything you might need._ ”

 

“Thank you,” said Peggy, uncertainly.

 

“ _You’re quite welcome, Ms. Carter._ ”

 

Natasha’s lips quirked in what Peggy suspected was amusement.

 

“He didn’t speak to you.”

 

“That’s because he knows he won’t get an answer,” Natasha replied. “I also don’t talk to ghosts or fairies.”

 

JARVIS, meanwhile, apparently felt the need to make up for Natasha’s shortcomings as a conversationalist. “ _Ms. Potts has asked me to inform you that she will be arriving shortly, and indicated you should make yourself at home._ _Please hold still for facial photography and retinal scan._ ”

 

A bright light flashed in her eyes, and then the window was clear again.

 

When JARVIS didn’t issue any further instructions, Peggy crossed the room and sat next to Natasha on the couch. They watched each other silently; Peggy was beginning to get the sense that Natasha wasn't much for idle chatter.

 

Peggy offered up an opening salvo: “That's a lovely sweater.” Talking about clothes, she’d found, was usually the easiest entry point in conversation between women.

 

“You don't have to do that,” said Natasha evenly.

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“You don't have to pretend to like me. I won't tell Steve.”

 

“I hardly know you,” Peggy pointed out. “And you can tell him anything you like, we don't keep secrets.”

 

Neutrally, Natasha replied, “If you say so.”

 

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

 

Natasha’s shrug, like all of her movements, had a sort of calculated, performative grace. “Everyone keeps secrets.”

 

“He told me you used to go out together.”

 

“Is that what he called it?”

 

“Yes. What would you call it?”

 

“Sex,” said Natasha bluntly.

 

“Just sex?”

 

“You want the specifics?”

 

“Absolutely not,” said Peggy emphatically. “It’s just that, from what he told me, I’d pictured something quite different.”

 

“Romance?” prompted Natasha, with a mocking smile. “Flowers? Candlelight? Picnics in Central Park?”

 

“Rather,” said Peggy tightly.

 

“He tried that at first. It was interesting. Not really my style. And he was only doing it out of obligation.”

 

“Obligation?”

 

“It took him some time to accept the idea that two friends could just have sex without all of that... window dressing.”

 

Peggy wasn't sure what to think. Why hadn't Steve told her the truth? Did he think she would disapprove? Would _he_ disapprove if he knew about her and Howard?

 

As if reading her mind, Natasha added, “He probably didn't want to shock you.”

 

“It wouldn't have shocked me.”

 

“It shocked him,” Natasha deadpanned.

 

“That's not surprising.” Steve's brand of gallantry had always been somewhat old-fashioned, even in their time. Peggy felt an unexpected pang of regret at how much time they’d wasted dancing around each other.

 

Again, Natasha seemed to know what she was thinking: “He said he regretted not being with you when he had the chance.”

 

“It's eerie, the way you do that.”

 

“Do what?”

 

“Read people. I’m quite good at it, myself. But there are no flies on you.”

 

“There never are.” She said it matter-of-factly, without a trace of condescension or arrogance. “I’m not still sleeping with him. In case you were curious.”

 

“I wasn’t, particularly.”

 

It was true: Peggy knew Steve well enough to know that wasn’t his style. It wasn’t _sex_ she was envious of, but rather, _intimacy_. Partnership. A shared life that included working side by side. She and Steve had had that once, and now she didn’t know if they ever would again. And she missed it.

 

“But thank you for clarifying,” she added.

 

“If you want to level the playing field,” Natasha continued, her voice dark and smoky, “you and I could have sex.” She shifted positions on the couch: angling her body towards Peggy’s, crossing her legs, and arching her back ever so slightly.

 

Peggy knew that move. Peggy had _pioneered_ that move.

 

“So kind of you to offer.” Peggy kept her face deadpan, threw a casual glance at her wristwatch. “But I’m not sure we have time.”

 

Natasha dropped out of the seductive pose, and favoured her with a slight, approving smile.

 

Peggy smiled back.


	15. Lover Man (Oh, Where Can You Be?)

The kitchen in the penthouse suite was large, white, and spotless, with sleek machines taking up the majority of the counter space. Peggy recognized the microwave and the blender, but the others were entirely foreign to her.

 

Pepper had brought takeout in large brown paper bags. The names of the dishes weren’t anything Peggy was familiar with, but the food itself was simple and delicious: chicken roasted in spices, flat bread, buttery rice with peas and carrots, soft potatoes in lemon sauce. There was far too much food for just the three of them—though Natasha certainly seemed determined to make a decent showing, folding food into her mouth efficiently and noiselessly, as though she didn’t know when she might expect to eat again.

 

Pepper was a polite, even congenial hostess: asking Peggy how school was going, talking at length about her own college experience. She didn’t mention Tony, or the hospital. She seemed quite collected, if slightly on the manic side; Peggy recognized battlefield nerve when she saw it.

 

Natasha, by contrast, said very little, despite Pepper’s attempts to include her in the conversation.

 

While they were picking at the remaining food, a man appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. His filthy clothes and unkempt appearance marked him as a vagrant, but Pepper stood and walked across the room to greet him. She offered him a place at the table and set a plate in front of him—she seemed more at ease when she had a task to complete, a feeling with which Peggy was all too familiar.

 

“You smell like a sewer,” said Natasha to the newcomer, without preamble.

 

His mouth was already crammed full of food, but he ducked his head in acquiescence.

 

“And you need a haircut,” said Pepper, somewhat more affectionately, before crossing the kitchen to fiddle with an expensive-looking stainless steel contraption.

 

Privately, Peggy couldn’t help agreeing with both assessments.

 

He nodded again, with a rueful smile. “Strangers wielding scissors near my face make me edgy.” At the word ‘strangers,’ both he and Natasha glanced in Peggy’s direction.

 

“I beg your pardon,” said Peggy, automatically. “Margaret Carter.” She eschewed the traditional handshake in favour of a polite nod.

 

“Bruce Banner,” the newcomer replied, nodding back.

 

Pepper placed four mugs in the centre of the table, along with cream and sugar—apparently the machine, which was now buzzing, produced coffee.

 

Bruce was looking at Peggy thoughtfully. She suddenly recalled where she’d heard his name before—this was the colleague Tony had consulted about her dramatic little experiment in rapid healing.

 

“How long will you be here, Bruce?” Pepper was asking. She placed a hand on Natasha’s shoulder, presumably to signal her presence as she leaned over her to place the coffee carafe on the table. It was a gesture that spoke, if not of friendship, of some long familiarity.

 

“Not sure,” replied Bruce. “This is Fury’s party, I’m just a guest.”

 

“Not even that,” said Natasha, unexpectedly. “We’re not the guests. We’re the caterers and the custodians.” She poured herself a large cup of coffee, and sipped it without making any alterations.

 

“And I’m the guy they call in at the end of the night when they want the room cleared out,” Bruce retorted, helping himself to coffee as well.

 

“Peggy, would you prefer tea?” asked Pepper.

 

“Thank you, I’m fine.” Peggy could feel her exhaustion rising like the tide, threatening to break over her any moment.

 

It must have shown on her face, because Pepper put down her own coffee cup and said, “Let me show you where you’ll be sleeping.”

 

*

 

Pepper led her to another floor, and another suite of rooms. These had such a personal feel to them that Peggy had the distinct sensation of walking into someone's home while they were out. She wavered awkwardly on the front hall rug for a moment, debating whether to remove her shoes, before following Pepper inside.

 

The floors were hardwood instead of tile; the walls were papered and paneled, in a style Peggy didn’t think was much favoured nowadays. The obvious point of focus in the living room was the south wall, which boasted a large fireplace framed by an ornate carved wooden mantelpiece. Facing the fireplace was a low, blocky sofa, flanked by two invitingly curved leather armchairs.

 

The colours in the room were soft: muted green and pale gold, accented with the occasional touch of turquoise. There was no sign of a television, but a large radio cabinet occupied a place of obvious priority in one corner.

 

The suite was bright, and clean, and comfortable—but there was something staged about it. She was reminded of a few of the people she'd met at school, who expressed a passion for all things "vintage," and who insisted on buying uncomfortable threadbare furniture and listening to scratchy 45s.

 

Nevertheless, she said, “It’s lovely. Are all of the guest quarters like this?”

 

Pepper shook her head. “You may have noticed that Tony likes to express his affection for people with gifts instead of words.”

 

Peggy nodded, thinking of her shopping trip with Pepper. Howard had been the same, of course, plying her with drinks and cigarettes because he knew she would never accept more lavish tributes—she had always been wary of creating any expectation of reciprocity.

 

“When we were redesigning the Tower, he put in a floor for each of the Avengers.”

 

Suddenly the artificiality of the space, its time-capsule feel, made perfect sense. “He meant this for Steve?”

 

Pepper nodded. “He put a lot of effort into getting the details right—he gutted a classic six on the Upper East Side for the fireplace and some of the fixtures. The bathtub is custom. And I believe the chairs are from his parents' old house.”

 

Peggy looked at the chairs again; the coffee-coloured leather did look a little worn around the corners. She imagined Howard and his young bride sitting in them, on either side of the coffee table, like bookends.

 

“And what did Steve think of all this?”

 

“He said it was very nice, but that he liked his neighbourhood and he didn't feel comfortable breaking his lease. I think… it was a lot to expect.”

 

Peggy couldn’t help but agree. For Steve, trying to find his footing in a new world, living in such a carefully curated monument to the past would only serve to remind him of everything he'd lost.

 

“Do you think you’ll be okay here?” asked Pepper. “If not, I can find something else.”

 

“Please don’t go to any more trouble than you already have. This is more than suitable. It’s lovely.” As for Steve, it was only one evening, with her there to distract him. She was quite certain he’d survive.

 

They stepped into the bedroom. Her suitcase, which she’d last seen in the trunk of Barton’s car, had apparently been delivered; it stood in the far corner, next to a small chest of drawers. Of course, everything in the room seemed small in comparison to the absolutely enormous bed in the centre. Peggy didn’t think she’d ever seen one quite so large.

 

“ _That_ certainly isn’t period-appropriate,” she observed. “I could sleep on it sideways.”

 

“It was my suggestion. I mean, Steve is so…” Pepper made a wide-spanning gesture.

 

“Quite.”

 

“And I didn’t know if he’d have overnight guests.”

 

Peggy raised an eyebrow. “How many were you expecting him to have at one time?”

 

The corners of Pepper’s mouth quirked upward. “It’s possible I was making assumptions. Steve claims that he slept on the couch when he went to visit you.”

 

“He did,” Peggy affirmed. She paused for effect before adding, “The first night. And I’ve had a high-five already, thank you.”

 

“I’ll try to restrain myself.”

 

“I… Steve said he would come by once he’d been discharged. He’ll be able to get in here all right, if I’m asleep?”

 

“Full clearance,” Pepper assured her.

 

“Were you able to speak with Tony before you left?”

 

“He woke up for a bit, but he was… it wasn’t a good time.” Pepper was obviously a bit embarrassed at having bared so much earlier. “Do you want to come with me when I go back? It’ll be early in the morning.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“I’ll have JARVIS wake you up. And you can ask him to get me, or Natasha, if there’s anything you need. Okay?”

 

“Perfect, thank you.”

 

Peggy had never been a great hugger—it simply hadn’t been the done thing in the Carter household—but she sensed, in that moment, that it was what Pepper needed. Wordlessly, she opened her arms; Pepper gave a grateful nod and stepped forward, folding herself into Peggy’s embrace.

 

“There now,” murmured Peggy, trying to remember exactly what it was one said at moments like this. “There. It’s all right.”

 

*

 

Once Pepper had left, JARVIS talked Peggy through connecting her laptop to the tower’s wifi. She checked her email, mostly out of force of habit; Steve was, presumably, either still at the hospital or en route, and Pepper was here. Charlotte had sent an e-card titled “Happy Spanksgiving,” which Peggy reckoned she’d open another time.

 

After changing into her nightgown, Peggy had a pleasant, if somewhat odd, discussion with JARVIS about her preferred sleeping temperature, ambient light and sound levels, and method of waking. He apparently had several thousand different alarm tones, ranging from gentle birdsong to a klaxon that made her teeth rattle.

 

The massive bed was quite comfortable, and she sank almost immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep. This, however, lasted only a short while; she emerged more wakeful than ever, and desperate for a cup of tea.

 

The suite’s kitchenette had a gas range and a variety of non-perishable staples. Most of them were modern versions of products she remembered—not with nostalgia, either. She doubted that Tony had any particular fondness for potted meats, so she could only assume that this was a continuation of the furnishings and the architecture—a somewhat misguided attempt to make Steve feel at home.

 

There was neither tea nor a kettle, but after some digging in the cupboards she managed to locate a small saucepan, a plastic bag of powdered milk, and a jar of Ovaltine. It would have to do; she wasn’t about to wake Pepper in the middle of the night to ask for something so trivial. She mixed up the milk and set it over a low flame.

 

Steaming mug in hand, she wandered around the suite, peeking into cupboards. She was inspecting the wireless set when a loud chime nearly startled her out of her wits.

 

She’d already drawn breath to ask JARVIS about it, when she realized the sound had come from her open laptop—Steve’s FlagUp folder.

 

She sat down and clicked on the mailbox icon, squinting at the bright screen. There were two new items in the folder: a video, titled _Touching Reunion_ , and a photo, titled _Good Night Darling._

 

She clicked on the video first. It was a grainy, poorly lit shot of a couple, kissing madly on a sidewalk. It wasn’t until they broke apart that Peggy recognized her own coat and scarf, and Steve’s sweater.

 

Her first thought was that perhaps Barton _had_ been following them that night, after all. But why would Steve have this, and why would he send it to her without any sort of explanation?

 

She closed the video and clicked on the photo. It loaded a second later: an empty hospital bed.

 

Spots of blood on the pillow.

 

_Good Night Darling._

 

“JARVIS!” she called out. “Tell Agent Romanoff I need her. Now!”


	16. You Call Everybody Darling

Despite the late hour, both Natasha and Barton arrived immediately in answer to Peggy’s summons. Barton was in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, rather than his SHIELD uniform—which would seem to indicate that he’d been making a social call.

 

Peggy showed them the photo and the video, swallowing her embarrassment at having to explain the latter. Barton confirmed that he’d had nothing to do with it.

 

Natasha then asked to see the laptop. She saved both files to a zip drive, the smallest Peggy had ever seen, and wasted no time in tracing the two FlagUp files to Steve’s cell phone.

 

In the meantime, Peggy went into the bedroom and dressed quickly: exercise pants, t-shirt, a hooded sweatshirt with convenient deep pockets, and running shoes. She didn’t bother with makeup, but did take the time to put her hair up, in case she needed it out of the way. She put every essential she could think of into her bookbag, mourning the absence of the customized attaché case she used to carry.

 

When she rejoined the others, Natasha was still typing away, the light from the screen giving her face a bluish cast. Barton was on the phone, coordinating extra security at the hospital. It struck Peggy a bit like locking the barn door after the horse had been stolen—until she remembered Tony, unconscious and defenseless, and could have kicked herself for being so self-absorbed.

 

With JARVIS’s assistance, Natasha was able to pinpoint the exact location of Steve’s phone: his apartment in Brooklyn. They tried calling, but there was no answer.

 

“Hospital said he signed out,” said Barton. “But he never rendezvous’d with his ride.”

 

“He could have driven himself,” Natasha suggested, her tone making it clear that she thought it very unlikely.

 

“Can’t you—doesn’t he have that tracker, the one all SHIELD agents have?” Peggy asked, her hand moving unconsciously to the back of her neck.

 

“Not anymore,” said Natasha succinctly.

 

“He had it removed?”

 

“Had it broken. Along with his skull,” added Barton, miming a blow to the back of the head. “Couple months back.”

 

It occurred to Peggy then that neither agent seemed particularly surprised by the fact that Steve might be missing. It could be professionalism and experience, but she sensed there was more to it than that.

 

Natasha stood up and started tucking things into pockets—her phone, her tiny zip drive. Barton had shrugged back into his jacket, and was inspecting the fit of his shoulder holster. They were obviously on the move.

 

Already halfway to the door, Barton said, “Too bad your firearms training isn’t up to date, Carter.”

 

“That almost sounds as though you think I’m not going with you,” Peggy replied, shouldering her bag.

 

*

 

When they arrived at Steve’s apartment, Peggy was expecting Natasha to either break down the door or pick the lock, but instead she produced a key.

 

Of course.

 

She motioned for Peggy to stand clear of the door, then unlocked and pushed it open in a single smooth motion, moving aside as the door swung inward.

 

“Clear,” barked Barton from inside.

 

The weight of Peggy’s disappointment surprised her; she hadn’t fully known it until that moment, but she’d been hoping against hope that this was all an awful misunderstanding—that Steve was really just in bed, sleeping off his injuries.

 

The apartment had a fairly straightforward layout: enter by way of the living room, bedroom and bathroom on the right, kitchen on the left. There was no back entrance to the suite. Barton must have gone in through a window, Peggy realized.

 

The furnishings were few, but deliberately placed: a draftsman’s table stationed by the window, angled to catch the daylight; a small wooden writing desk in the corner opposite, with charging cords for the phone and laptop. A slightly shabby couch, and a modern-looking stereo that had both a turntable and a dock for an MP3 player. No television.

 

Peggy glanced around, taking in the details that hadn’t been apparent in Steve’s photographs: picture rails on the interior plaster walls, framed prints carefully affixed to them. His service medals, in a floating frame, by the doorway to the bedroom. Bookshelves upon bookshelves, occupying two entire walls.

 

“Kitchen,” called Natasha, striding off in that direction.

 

Barton positioned himself between the front door and the window that led to the fire escape—he’d be covering off the exits. He was holding a sleek-looking pistol that made Peggy reach reflexively for her own trusted Walther PPK, before remembering that she hadn’t carried a gun in months. Well, decades, technically. Barton, catching sight of the motion, looked sympathetic.

 

Peggy was determined to pull her own weight. “I’ll take the bedroom,” she announced.

 

She couldn’t help but feel as though she were trespassing, as she stepped into what was obviously Steve’s private haven from the world. Unlike in the other rooms, there was clutter and disarray—crumpled receipts and coins on the dresser, clothes on the floor, an unzipped gym bag tossed into a corner, a full clothes-hamper that appeared to have been dragged halfway the bathroom before distraction intervened.

 

Peggy did a quick circuit, pulling open drawers and closet doors, scanning for anything out of place. She poked through the receipts on the dresser; most of them were from the weekend he’d visited—the campus coffee shop, the bar, the drugstore—and one appeared to be in a Slavic language Peggy didn’t immediately recognize. Likewise, the coins were mostly familiar, but a couple of them were foreign.

 

She crouched down to look under the bed. Nothing there, besides evidence of Steve’s obvious distaste for vacuuming.

 

The bed wasn’t at all how she’d imagined. No heavy comforters or woollen blankets; just a simple set of grey sheets, a light duvet with a navy blue slip-cover, and only one thin pillow. It made sense, given that Steve didn’t feel the cold as keenly as most people did, but it didn’t jibe with her (albeit brief) experience sharing a bed with him. He liked to burrow as he slept, burying his face in pillows and pulling the comforter right up to his neck. His bed seemed so… utilitarian.

 

She wondered how much time he’d been spending in it.

 

The bedding was rumpled, the pillow dented; a pair of track pants and an undershirt were puddled on the floor to the right of the bed, as though he’d vaulted out of bed and immediately stripped out of his sleeping clothes.

 

It could all indicate a hasty departure, but it could also just mean that Steve wasn’t any great shakes at tidying up after himself. He’d obviously been on his best behaviour as a houseguest, so Peggy really couldn’t say.

 

Natasha probably could.

 

Peggy spotted an unframed photo on the bedside table, propped against the reading lamp; it turned out to be her sexy cat-lady picture from Halloween. Inwardly, she groaned. Out of all the pictures she’d sent, of course it would be _that_ one. Given the circumstances, she resisted the urge to shove the photo in a drawer before Natasha or Barton could see it.

 

Impulsively, she pressed her fingers into the hollow of Steve’s pillow, as if seeking some ghost of warmth from his body. When she did so, she felt a hard surface underneath. She slid her hand under the pillow and pulled out a black coil-bound book.

 

The first part of the sketchbook was mostly cityscapes: buildings, trees. Central Park, the SHIELD campus. A few featureless figures, sketched in from a distance. In the corner of one page, in an unfamiliar handwriting, a name—Beth—and a phone number.

 

She wondered if he’d ever called her.

 

A third of the way into the book, faces started to appear:

 

Steve’s own face, before and after the serum.

 

Portraits of a young man and woman in old-fashioned clothing. They were both fair; the man was tall and broad, and the woman had Steve’s long nose and soft mouth. More studies of the woman, showing her progress to an advanced age—these seemed tenuous, speculative.

 

A couple of pages where the figures had been blacked out with a broad marker.

 

The marker had bled through to the pages beneath, clouding and freckling other sketches— girls from the USO tour, men in uniform. Morita, Dernier, Jones, Falsworth, Dugan. Howard, bent over a table in the lab. Two portraits of Peggy in uniform: stern and uncompromising in a straight-on view, softer and more forgiving in profile. Erskine. Phillips. Sometimes there were scribbled notes next to a particular portrait: locations, dates. Next to Peggy, he’d written, “MIA 1946,” the letters etched deep into the page, as though he’d pressed down very hard.

 

The next two pages were coloured over so heavily that the odor of solvent wafted from the page as she uncovered it. Peggy turned the page this way and that under the light from the lamp, trying to make the pencil marks shine through the black marker. No luck.

 

She flipped a few pages, glimpsing new faces: Tony, Thor, Bruce, Fury, Hill, Barton, Natasha.

 

Natasha.

 

Natasha. 

 

He’d sketched her quickly, messily, capturing the impression of rapid movement. On one page, he’d drawn her as a ballerina; a few pages later, he’d done what appeared to be an homage to the work of Alberto Vargas, a cheeky over-the-shoulder pin-up girl pose, Natasha clutching a sheet around her torso.

 

Peggy wasn’t interested in seeing what might come next. She pinched a stack of pages between her thumb and forefinger, turning them all at once—and found herself face-to-face with… herself.

 

Herself as she had been, all those months ago: pale and far too thin, a severe hairstyle that was the only thing she could manage, a grey skirt and jumper that were the only set of clothes she owned. She remembered the cavernous silences between them, the sarcasm and biting comments she’d thrown in his path, determined to arm herself against a threat she couldn’t articulate. Steve, always the optimist, had managed to capture and sketch the few, fleeting moments when she’d smiled at him.

 

All she’d seen, then, were the ways in which Steve had changed: his hair, his clothing, the expressions he used; the ease with which he now spoke to women, even teased and flirted with them; his skill at navigating a cultural and technological landscape that had baffled her.

 

Now, more at home in that landscape herself, she was able to see that he was fundamentally unchanged; he’d matured, grown through experience, and adapted to survive in a new setting, but he was still, underneath it all, the same Steve Rogers she’d loved and lost in 1944.

 

She turned the pages, revealing glimpses of her everyday routine: reading a thick paperback in her little cell on the long-term care ward; intently studying a practice exam with a pencil clutched between her teeth; sitting under a tree in Central Park with fallen petals in her hair.

 

She almost missed the next page because it was folded in on itself, the outer edge tucked into the centre of the sketchbook. She unfolded it to uncover her more recent self: reclining in bed, shoulders bare, curls in disarray, sunlight streaming in through the cracked bedroom window above. Her eyes were shining; her smile was luminous, joyful. Peggy didn’t think she’d ever seen her face look like that.

 

“Nothing,” called Natasha from the other side of the apartment, bringing Peggy back to the present.

 

“I don’t think there’s much here, either.” Even as she said it, she flipped back again to the blacked-out pages in Steve’s sketchbook. It wasn’t like him to do that; he always kept everything, claiming that the failed drawings helped him to see where he needed to improve. And the blunt, heavy marker wasn’t his usual medium; Steve tended to draw in small scale, with delicate pencils and deft inks. “Come and look at this, though.”

 

Natasha was beside her in a moment. Peggy showed her the two areas where pages had been inked over. Natasha passed over the drawings of herself without comment.

 

“Perhaps with a scanner, you might… in my day, we’d have used an acid bath.”

 

Natasha tucked the book into Peggy’s bag. “Did you check the bathroom?”

 

“Not yet.” Pointing to her bag, she asked, “Do you think it’s a clue?”

 

Natasha gave a noncommittal shrug. Her gaze flicked to the picture of Peggy on the nightstand, and her lips curved in the barest hint of a smile. Peggy wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake some answers out of her; instead, she turned and headed for the bathroom.

 

As she did so, her phone buzzed.

 

She fished it out of her sweatshirt pocket and glanced at the screen. It was a text, from Steve’s number:

 

_Keep looking, darling. I’m in the last place I would expect to find myself. Please hurry. I’m cold and lonely without you._

 

There was a photo attached: a long wrist, bearing a paper hospital bracelet. The text on the bracelet was clearly visible: ROGERS STEVEN G. Even without the bracelet, Peggy would have known that hand anywhere.

 

The phone’s plastic case squeaked in Peggy’s grip. She deliberately relaxed her fingers, forcing herself to breathe evenly. “I think we’ve been spotted,” she said, showing the screen to Natasha.

 

Natasha had her own phone out. “Don’t move.” She was stepping carefully around the edge of the room, her hand sweeping back and forth. She stopped in front of the clothes hamper and kicked it over. Out tumbled underwear, balled-up socks, t-shirts, and in the midst of it all, Steve’s cell phone.

 

Natasha crouched low to examine the device, but didn’t touch it right away.

 

“Do you think it’s a bomb?”

 

“I think it’s a phone.”

 

“That much seems obvious,” retorted Peggy.

 

Natasha produced a plastic bag from some interior jacket pocket, put it over her hand, and used it to scoop up and collect the phone. She pressed a button on her own phone, bathing Steve’s phone in a blue-white light. “It’s clean.”

 

“It texted me.”

 

“Proximity beacon,” said Natasha, pocketing the bagged phone. “When you got within range, it sent the message.”

 

Peggy considered this, then concluded, “Someone knew I’d be here.”

 

“Right.”

 

“And you know whom.”

 

The statement was a calculated gamble, but when Natasha’s gaze met hers, Peggy knew she was dead on.

 

“Time to go!” called Barton from the living room.

 

Natasha leapt to her feet and charged out. Barton was already out the window; Natasha gestured for Peggy to do the same. Peggy slipped out and picked her way down the ladder as Natasha followed, closing the window sash behind them.

 

As soon as her sneakers hit pavement, Peggy asked, “Would you mind telling me what—?”

 

Barton shushed her, then mouthed the word “SHIELD,” pointing down the alley. A pair of young men in combat blacks were milling about, talking on their earpieces.

 

Quite unexpectedly, Barton threw an arm around her waist. Cover, she quickly realized, having used this strategy often enough as an operative. She stepped closer, resting her chin on his shoulder and bringing a hand up to stroke the back of his neck, peeking over his shoulder at the two agents as she did so.

 

They weren’t even looking.

 

Peggy couldn’t help but disapprove of their lack of attention to their surroundings; she’d never have stood for such sloppy work from the operatives in her charge.

 

Natasha waited until the agents had passed before descending. She didn’t bother with the ladder at all, dropping from the railing and landing in a soundless crouch. She raised an eyebrow at Peggy and Barton, who were still embracing; Barton rolled his eyes in response, giving Peggy a friendly pat on the back before letting her go.

 

When Barton and Natasha started to walk towards the back of the building, she followed suit, taking care to emulate them and step silently.

 

She waited until they were all safely in the car before demanding, “Why the blazes are we running away? Aren’t we all on the same side?”

 

“Long story,” said Barton.

 

“I’d very much like to hear it!”

 

“Not here,” said Natasha, shifting into drive.


	17. Prodigal Son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so happy that people are enjoying the story and commenting with their predictions about what's going to happen! I love that you're so engaged with the material. Thank you for being such patient and steadfast readers.
> 
> However! I just wanted to gently remind everyone that I started writing this story in 2012, before Avengers was out. I adapted it to take place post-Avengers, because I wanted to use pieces of that film as the backdrop for this story, but that's where we disembark from the canon train. 
> 
> This story takes place in 2012/2013 is an AU as far as Iron Man 3, Thor: The Dark World, Agents of SHIELD, and (most crucially) Captain America: The Winter Soldier are concerned.
> 
> Okay. On with the show!

They regrouped in Tony’s sitting room.

 

Pepper, in a t-shirt and pajama bottoms, had apparently not gone to bed, but instead was seated on the floor in front of the coffee table, mired in stacks of paperwork. The glass table, like most other flat surfaces in Tony’s apartment, was a touch-screen terminal; from what Peggy could see, she’d been reviewing Stark Industries patent agreements.

 

Across from Pepper and Peggy, Natasha and Barton sat with their heads together over Peggy’s laptop and Steve’s phone, murmuring to each other in computer language. Their detailed investigation of all of her personal correspondence with Steve (emails, text messages, and FlagUp files) had been very professional, but still thoroughly humiliating.

 

Bruce—cleaned and groomed, and wearing a set of clothes obviously tailored for someone smaller—was working at a terminal by the picture window, running some sort of complicated-looking mapping program.

 

In the old days, Peggy would have known exactly how to go about organizing a search and rescue operation. She would have known her adversary well enough to predict their behaviour; she would have known the terrain well enough to be able to section it off; and she would have known her associates well enough to determine who ought to be assigned to look where. She would have been able to coordinate manpower and equipment and point it all in the right direction.

 

Now, though, she felt utterly helpless. She didn’t know these people, she didn’t know SHIELD, she didn’t know New York, and she didn’t know who could possibly have overpowered and taken Steve. She couldn’t even make coffee for the others, because she hadn’t a clue how to operate anything in Tony’s kitchen. Even the tea-kettle was computerized.

 

The only thing she brought to the table at all, really, was that whoever had Steve seemed to have an interest in Peggy, as well. It wasn’t much to build on.

 

The two agents must have hit a dead end; they drew back, Natasha dropping her hands in her lap, Barton cursing under his breath.

 

“I know it’s a novel concept,” said Peggy briskly, “but shall we try being completely honest with each other?”

 

The two exchanged a long glance.

 

“Unless you’d rather I ask Director Fury. I’m sure he’d be happy to tell me why he sent another pair of agents round to Steve’s apartment, knowing we were already there.”

 

Nothing.

 

“He didn’t know we were there. Because we weren’t, officially. Am I correct?”

 

Natasha nodded.

 

Barton asked, “Do you remember a guy called James Buchanan Barnes?” He wasn’t normally a precise speaker, but she noticed he said the name slowly, carefully. He wanted to be certain there was no room for error.

 

“Of course,” replied Peggy, bewildered by the non sequitur. She had a flash of memory: breaking curfew to find Steve sitting in a bombed-out pub, choking back tears. “He was a good man. Killed in action in ‘44.”

 

“No,” said Natasha shortly.

 

“To which part?”

 

“All of it.” Natasha called up an image on her phone before tossing it across to Peggy.

 

The man in the photographs was unkempt, the lower part of his face concealed by some sort of respirator or face-shield. He wore modern battle gear and carried a modern weapon. But the seawater-blue of the eyes was right, the shape of the brow, the hairline…

 

It was _impossible_.

 

Barton added, “He’s been trying to get Steve for the past couple of months.”

 

“That’s mad,” Peggy protested. “Barnes is _dead_! That’s not in dispute—Steve was there when it happened. And even if he weren’t… he and Steve, they were as close as brothers. It must be a—a lookalike, or a relative. This man could have had plastic surgery, or—”

 

“No,” Natasha repeated.

 

“I wish you’d say what you bloody well mean, instead of just saying ‘no’ to me as though I’m a child up past its bedtime!”

 

“The little stunt in D.C., that was him,” said Barton.

 

“The bomb?”

 

“He wanted Steve to find it,” said Natasha. “James is a lot of things, but incompetent isn’t one of them.”

 

Peggy gave Natasha a look. _James_. Not _Barnes_. It wasn’t a slip. It was deliberate.

 

Natasha met her gaze coolly. “The Soviets called him the American. SHIELD’s code-name for him is the Winter Soldier. He didn’t die in the fall. And he’s not a good man.”

 

Peggy’s head was spinning. _James Barnes. **Bucky** Barnes. The American. The Winter Soldier._ She remembered the terms _summer soldier_ and _sunshine patriot_ from her study of the American Revolutionary War. She wondered whether “winter soldier” meant the opposite, or whether it had a different connotation entirely.

 

“Soviet super-soldiers. He was the first of many, and the best. He trained me,” Natasha continued, “and others.”

 

“Trained you for what?”

 

“Infiltration. Assassination. The project that made you was supposed to be the American counterpart of the Black Widow program. You never made the connection?”

 

“I thought perhaps you bit the heads off your mates when you’d finished with them,” Peggy retorted.

 

“Not always,” said Natasha. “Lucky for you.”

 

It took a prodigious effort, but Peggy managed not to rise to the bait. “How did the Soviets convince Barnes to work for them?”

 

“Convince?” repeated Natasha incredulously. “Drugs. Torture. Electroshock. Conditioning. It didn’t always take. If he went too long between treatments, memories would bleed through. So they kept him in cryostasis between missions. To keep the blade sharp.”

 

Natasha relayed the information with an almost clinical detachment, staring fixedly at some point in the middle distance. It reminded Peggy of the work she’d done at the end of the war, debriefing men who’d been held in POW camps. No matter how unflinchingly Natasha faced it, this was a story that hurt in the telling.

 

“I knew him. Better than most. That’s why Fury agreed to bury my record and bring me in.”

 

“That’s _one_ reason,” Barton interjected. He had a peculiar look on his face that Peggy couldn’t quite read.

 

“But you never caught him,” Peggy prompted. “Obviously.”

 

“He disappeared in the late nineties. We thought he’d been struck off. Then he turned up again, about six months ago—right around the time you showed up. He’s not the man you knew,” Natasha insisted. “It’s important you understand that. That’s where Steve made his mistake.”

 

“Steve knows about this—about Barnes?”

 

Peggy knew the answer to the question, even before Natasha’s curt nod. “Fury debriefed him after the incident in D.C. He wanted Steve working with me to track him down.”

 

No wonder he’d been such a nervous wreck, thought Peggy. His childhood friend. It was unfathomable.

 

Peggy knew it wasn’t the time to feel betrayed—Steve, as always, had done his duty at great personal cost. But a small part of her still felt that he could have confided in her at _some_ point. That she, of all people, could have helped him through it.

 

As usual, Natasha seemed to pluck the thoughts right out of her head. “He was under orders not to say anything about it to you.”

 

“To me, specifically?”

 

“Fury thought you might be a plant,” said Barton, almost apologetically.

 

And just like that, it all came clear: the marksman hadn’t been following her for her own protection. Fury had sent him to keep an eye on her.

 

“Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake.” Peggy threw up her hands. “Useless. All of you. Bloody useless.”

 

“Look at it from his perspective,” Natasha countered. “You were the only one who survived the procedure. You have bio-enhancements that the other Briar Rose candidates didn’t have, and that aren’t on record. You associated with Soviet agents in your work after the war. You knew James Barnes personally—but you pretended not to recognize him when Fury and Hill showed you the surveillance footage from DC.”

 

“But he wasn’t _in_ any of it! Or if he was, I never saw him.”

 

Because she’d had eyes only for Steve, she realized, chagrined. _That_ was why Fury had shown her the footage with such deliberation, why he’d observed her reactions so intently. It was a test, and she had failed. Because she’d been preoccupied.

 

She had to keep a clear head from now on, she told herself. If she let emotion cloud her perception or her judgement, Steve could pay the price.

 

“If you all knew Barnes was after him,” Peggy continued, “why wasn’t anyone watching him at the hospital?”

 

“They were,” said Natasha.

 

“We had fields agent in street clothes on him the whole night,” Barton explained. “Cap was signing his discharge paperwork. He told the guys to go get a coffee and he’d meet them at the car.”

 

“Did they know about Barnes?”

 

Barton shook his head. “That’s high-level intel. They had no reason to think Rogers would run into any trouble because, as one of them put it, ‘he’s Captain fucking America.’”

 

Peggy felt a dizzying rush of anger, and rather than suppressing it, she channeled it forward, shouting, “You idiots!”

 

Everyone paused in what they were doing to look at her—with what she perceived to be polite indifference, as though she were about to recite a poem or launch into a Shakespearean soliloquy.

 

“Fury had him at an unsecured hospital, with a broken tracking chip, being guarded by some wet recruits who weren’t briefed and who thought it was acceptable to leave their post _to get coffee_?! He was put there as bait, and you lot stood aside and let him be taken! Christ almighty!”

 

She pitched the phone in her hand at Natasha’s head, with far more force than she’d intended.

 

Natasha dodged, and the phone flew across the room, striking the wall. The case fragmented, the whole works clattering to the tile floor.

 

“It was Steve’s idea,” she said, completely unfazed by Peggy’s outburst. “With Fury’s approval.”

 

“Our orders are to wait it out,” Barton added.

 

“And will you?”

 

Natasha shook her head. “Fury’s been hunting the Winter Soldier for fifty years. He’s willing to make whatever sacrifices it takes. And Steve is… emotionally compromised. He should never have been involved.”

 

Peggy nodded, making an effort to tamp down her rage. “He’s targeted me, for some reason. We might be able to use that to flush him out.”

 

The two agents looked at each other, then back at Peggy.

 

“You’re a civilian,” said Natasha, slowly. “And you’ve got the chip.”

 

“So do you. Or so I was told.”

 

“We hacked ours,” Barton explained. “JARVIS feeds in false location or biometrics info.”

 

“Well, then, do the same with mine.”

 

Natasha said, “We can’t.” She shot Barton a look that suggested she wasn’t comfortable with the amount of information he was sharing.

 

“Can’t, or won’t?”

 

“ _Can’t_ ,” she repeated. “Stark had to make the adjustments manually.”

 

“Don’t you know of anyone else who can?”

 

“Yeah,” said Barton, “but we’re off-book with this. We can’t get anyone from SHIELD involved, or it’ll get back to Fury.”

 

“You’ll have to break it, then,” said Peggy grimly. “The way Steve’s was broken.”

 

Peggy thought she saw a look of respect on the other woman’s face, but then Natasha shook her head. “Rogers was unconscious for a day and a half afterwards. His skull was fractured. And your healing factor isn’t as strong as his. We could kill you.”

 

“Bruce could do it,” said Pepper. She’d been so still that everyone, including Peggy, had momentarily forgotten she was in the room.

 

“You want me to… hit her in the head?” asked Bruce, uncertainly.

 

“The manual adjustment,” Pepper clarified. “Tony said it was your idea.” Her face was drawn, her freckles more prominent than usual.

 

Banner was nodding. “It was. Yeah. Maybe.” He scuffed his sneaker against the tile floor, turned a stylus over and over in his hands. “If I watched the video logs, and had JARVIS help me out. Probably. Yeah. I mean, I think so.”

 

“Hardly a ringing endorsement,” said Peggy dryly, trying to get the measure of him. His hands were steady, at least.

 

“We’re talking about surgery here. You want me to be overconfident?”

 

“Fair point.”

 

Natasha stood up. “You’re still a civilian,” she reiterated, showing irritation for the first time. She circled around the back of the couch and collected the components of her shattered phone before continuing, “You’re not licensed to drive or carry a weapon. You can barely use a cell phone, never mind a computer. And you’re prone to temper tantrums. You could get yourself and the rest of us killed.”

 

“Oh! Is _that_ what civilians do?” Pepper was trembling with rage, her hands curled into sharp little white-knuckled fists. “Because _I_ was under the impression that _civilians_ were sent in to fight alien warlords and divert nuclear missiles, and then were expected to man the PR smoke machines so that SHIELD can stay safely behind the curtain! Or is that _only_ the civilians that Nick Fury decides are disposable?”

 

Barton and Natasha exchanged glances again. Neither one spoke. Peggy wanted to knock their heads together.

 

“What you people do is _not okay_ ,” Pepper continued, in strident tones. “ _I_ didn’t vote for Nick Fury. _I’ve_ never seen SHIELD’s mission statement, or a copy of your operating budget. And yet you can put the people _I_ care about in danger and _not be accountable_!”

 

“Pepper,” said Natasha, her tone remarkably gentle. “We’re all worried about Tony. That’s why we’re here. We’re going to catch the person who did this to him.”

 

“And then what? Will there be a trial? What am I saying?” Pepper’s laugh was tight, high-pitched. Hysterical. “Of course there won’t!”

 

Peggy saw that her friend was going to push herself to the point of a breakdown unless someone intervened. What was more, she could tell that Natasha had seen it too.

 

Peggy took Pepper by the arm. “I need you to show me how to work the coffee machine,” she announced.

 

Pepper stared at her blankly.

 

“Honestly. I’ll fall asleep on my feet if you don’t. And then, I think, you ought to take a nap. Just a short one, hmm?” she coaxed, giving Pepper’s elbow a reassuring squeeze. “You leave this lot to me.”

 

The words had their desired effect: Pepper nodded, and allowed Peggy to lead her to the doorway that led to the kitchen. Peggy ushered her onward, then turned back to face Natasha.

 

“Make no mistake, Agent Romanoff,” she said, quietly but emphatically. “Civilian or not, I _am_ going to find Steve. I’d much rather do it with your help.”

 

She left without waiting for Natasha’s reply.


	18. Where Did You Sleep Last Night?

The chip adjustment wasn’t as long or as involved as Peggy had expected it might be. Mostly it was a lot of pressure and discomfort, with only occasional moments of real pain. Frankly, she’d endured far worse coming out of cryogenic sleep.

 

She was conscious throughout, and took no anaesthesia for the procedure, although Bruce did give her an injection to immobilize her from the neck down—for both her safety and his, he explained.

 

Afterwards, she remained in the head harness, her chin propped up, while she waited for the drug to wear off.

 

Bruce was seated nearby, in her line of sight, sterilizing and putting away the tools he’d used during the operation.

 

As a rule, he didn’t seem inclined to small talk, so it surprised her when he asked, “Peggy, do you notice yourself reacting disproportionately when you lose your temper?”

 

“As everyone does, occasionally,” she said, a bit defensive. “I hardly think I’m to blame, in this instance.”

 

“No, sorry, okay. What I mean is, when you get—not just a little annoyed, but like…” He made an explosive motion with his tented fingers, accompanied by a puffing sound. “Full-on rage. What happens?”

 

“Someone gets a slap.”

 

He looked at her steadily, dark eyes soft. It was hard to imagine this gentle man swatting a mosquito, let alone laying waste to an entire neighbourhood. “Tony said he saw you break the armrests on a conference room chair by squeezing them,” he prompted.

 

Peggy couldn’t give the dismissive wave that would have suited her. “Steve was the same, after his change. He was forever snapping off handles and denting doors. I simply had to learn to control it. I haven't had an incident in...” Even as she said it, her eyes drifted to her cracked cell phone case.

 

“Yeah, I'm… not so sure it's just growing pains.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You know how the super serum actually worked, right?”

 

“Yes. That is to say, I know the theory of it. Dr. Erskine felt that the serum took the dominant aspects of the subject’s personality—good or bad—and amplified them. That was why he was so adamant that our test subject be a good man.”

 

“Right. Well, though. That’s pretty subjective. What were his criteria for ‘goodness’?”

 

Peggy thought back to the discussions she’d observed between Erskine and Colonel Phillips, to the battery of psychological tests she’d run on the candidates. “Loyalty. Courage. Compassion. Self-sacrifice.”

 

Bruce nodded. “That definitely sounds like Steve.”

 

“It does,” agreed Peggy, quietly, not trusting herself to say more.

 

“Those qualities are all tied to emotion. Right? To empathy.”

 

“I suppose.” She couldn’t speak to it more generally, but in Steve’s case, they certainly were.

 

“It’s… the serum doesn’t just change the body. It affects the brain, too. And the area of the brain it affects most is the amygdala.”

 

“The centre of feeling?”

 

He made that particular brand of encouraging noise common to college lecture halls, and said, “When Steve changed, his emotional responses were heightened along with everything else.”

 

“You mean to say, he feels more than he did.”

 

“Well, more intensely,” Bruce clarified, his tone edging towards pedantic. “He probably didn’t even notice it, in the midst of all the physical changes, but yeah.”

 

“And now you’re asking me about my short temper. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Doctor, but I’ve been inclined towards hot-headedness ever since I was a girl. I’ve been told it’s the curse of my gender,” she added dryly.

 

“I don’t know about that,” said Bruce, so carefully neutral that Peggy had to force herself not to smile. “But Tony sent me some of your brain scans.”

 

Peggy briefly considered inquiring how _Tony_ had gotten his hands on these items, but recognized that the point was moot. “And?”

 

“And… there are some similarities between your brain and mine.”

 

Alarmed, she asked, “You don't mean I'm going to—”

 

He held up both hands reassuringly. “No, no. Nothing like that, no. That has to do with the type of radiation I was exposed to, and, uh.” He cleared his throat. “Emotional… trauma.”

 

Peggy still couldn’t move enough to nod, so she had to settle for a sympathetic look.

 

“But if I’m right, your enhanced abilities may be more directly tied to your emotional state than Steve’s are,” he continued. “So when you get angry—or any intense emotional response—you also get more faster, more powerful. You heal quicker. Which explains why you sometimes can’t control it. It’s a bit like… trying to water your garden with a hose, only someone else has control of the water pressure.” He mimed turning a spigot on and off.

 

Peggy looked back on the past few months, and a pattern began to snap into focus: the chair, the glass vase, the keyboard of her laptop. The slap she’d given Tony, much harder than she’d intended. Natasha’s phone, earlier.

 

“It would also explain why you started to notice a difference when you stopped taking your meds at the hospital. Your doctor had you on a high dose of mood stabilizers.” He gave the imaginary spigot a sharp turn.

 

“I believe you’re right,” she mused. “Those moments, they seem to happen when I’m cross, or...” She thought about being in bed with Steve—how easily she’d matched him for strength. The way she’d scratched him, hard enough to leave marks, without really noticing.

 

“Or?”

 

Peggy shook her head. “Something under the category of ‘intense emotional response.’”

 

Bruce nodded. “Got it.”

 

“What does it mean?”

 

“I think it means people had better not piss you off,” he replied.

 

Peggy managed to smile politely at the joke. It had been days since she’d had a night of uninterrupted sleep, and in that time she’d been through the emotional wringer more times than she could count.

 

“Though…” he observed, looking intrigued, “it would help your healing process. We could…”

 

“If it’s all the same to you,” said Peggy, “I’d rather not.”

 

“Understood.”

 

With a bit of focus, Peggy found she was able to flex her feet back and forth. “Tony mentioned talking with you over Skype. You don’t live in New York?”

 

“Not on the regular.”

 

“Fury asked you here. Why?”

 

“He said he ‘needed a second opinion’ about something. Offered me a consultant fee.”

 

“And you trust SHIELD?” Her arms were all over pins and needles, but she could lift them and she could make fists. “You often hire yourself out to them without reservation?”

 

Bruce frowned. “I wouldn’t say that, exactly. But Tony figured it probably had to do with you, so he asked me to come.”

 

“Fury does seem to have taken a particular interest in me. It’s very flattering. Particularly at my age.” Her legs were tingling. “It’s wearing off. Help me sit up properly.”

 

*

 

Natasha was seated at the dining table, behind a small stack of blue-and-white boxes. She and Barton had set up a sort of assembly line; Natasha was pulling cellular phones out of the boxes and tampering with the insides, while her partner appeared to be handling the programming side of things.

 

Peggy entered the kitchen. She was moving slowly, but under her own steam, with Bruce hard on her tail. She turned and flapped a hand at him. “For the last time, stop _hovering_. You’re driving me mad.” Of the SHIELD agents, she inquired, “Any luck?”

 

“We know more than we did,” said Barton. He didn’t sound terribly optimistic. “Have a seat.”

 

Peggy sat carefully, and took her school notebook out of her handbag. Gone was the comforting, communal atmosphere of the evening before; this meeting had the air of a council of war.

 

Bruce was peeking over Natasha’s shoulder as she worked on one of the phones. “Think you’ll need to burn all of these?”

 

“You know I hate being caught unprepared.”

 

“What have you found out?” asked Peggy, impatient.

 

It turned out that Natasha had detected the remains of a tracer—powder, contact transfer—on Steve’s dress uniform, and elsewhere in his apartment, during their search. She’d also found trace amounts of Nobel 808 in the same spots, suggesting that the explosive device at the medal ceremony was the source.

 

But she had reviewed the SHIELD bomb squad report from the incident; it made no mention of a tracer—which meant either the lab was falling down on the job, or someone didn’t want that information made generally available.

 

Barton, meanwhile, had discovered that Nick Fury had personally issued an order exempting Steve from having a new tracking chip implanted after his head injury. Combined with the bomb squad report, this suggested that Fury was aware of Barnes’ plan, and wanted to give the appearance of playing into his hands—but had kept Steve, Natasha, and Barton in the dark about crucial details.

 

Even more revealing was Natasha’s retelling of Steve’s first encounter with the Winter Soldier: Barnes had knocked Steve unconscious, disabling his tracking chip. He’d had more than enough time to finish him before Natasha had arrived on the scene to take up the fight—but he hadn’t.

 

The conclusion to be drawn here seemed to be that Barnes, or whoever he was working for, wanted to take Steve alive. And Fury, for reasons known only to himself, had allowed it to happen.

 

“But why the breadcrumb trail?” Peggy wondered. “Barnes seems quite keen to let us know who he is and what he’s done when he has, effectively, already bested us.” She refused to let her mind plumb the possibilities of that statement.

 

“You might be the next target,” said Barton. “Something to consider.” He reminded them that Agent Hill, Fury’s deputy, had been the one to pull Barton away from his surveillance of Peggy for the weekend that Steve had visited.

 

Peggy appreciated that he, at any rate, didn’t seem to wholly share Natasha’s feelings about Peggy being better off out of it.

 

“It’s also possible that he isn’t stable,” said Natasha, taking a phone for herself before handing one to Bruce. “He was the first subject, the one Department X used to perfect their conditioning techniques. And, unlike the rest of us, he wasn’t a blank slate when they started. There’s no way to know what he’s thinking, or where his allegiances are.”

 

“He’s been off the grid for—what, twenty years?” Barton pointed out, as he pocketed one of the cell phones. “You could get all kinds of fucked up in that timespan.”

 

“Oh, and you’d know,” said Natasha dryly.

 

Aiming to keep the group on task, Peggy flipped to a clean page in her notebook. “All right. He said that Steve was in the last place he would expect to find himself. What are some places that Steve would absolutely never go?”

 

“Yankee Stadium,” Barton deadpanned.

 

Peggy wrote it down.

 

He protested, “I was kidding.”

 

“I know. But we must start somewhere.”

 

“He doesn’t like Coney Island very much,” said Bruce, thoughtfully.

 

Peggy flashed back to her pilgrimage to the beach, all those years ago, and for a moment she felt on the verge of breaking. She steeled herself and said, “Good, keep going.”

 

“Maybe it’s a reference to when they were kids,” Barton suggested. “Something only Barnes would know.”

 

Peggy wrote _old neighbourhood?_ “I feel as though we’re missing something obvious.”

 

Bruce opened up his laptop. “I’ll see if anything jumps out in his SHIELD file.”

 

“The last place Steve would go,” said Natasha, each word careful and deliberate.

 

“No!” Peggy almost jumped out of her seat. “That’s what we assume he _meant_ —but it wasn’t what he _said_ , was it?”

 

Natasha’s eyes lit up in understanding. “You’re right. I should have caught that.”

 

The others looked at Peggy blankly.

 

“He said the last place Steve would expect to find _himself_.” Peggy pointed to Bruce, who was typing. “Captain America monuments,” she barked.

 

Before Bruce could answer, JARVIS interjected: “ _If I may be of assistance, Ms. Carter, there are fourteen statues, seven murals, three fountains, and twenty-nine commemorative plaques pertaining to Captain America in New York proper. In addition, there are schools, community centres, public parks, streets—_ ”

 

“We don’t have all bloody night, thank you,” Peggy interjected. “We’ll start with the statues, shall we?” It was a bold play—including herself in the group when Natasha had expressly indicated she wasn’t welcome.

 

Natasha met her gaze, then handed her a phone. “Let’s split up.”

 

*

 

Nothing seemed suspicious in the area around the Central Park monument, or any of the other monuments on Peggy and Barton’s list.

 

The last was a simple stone statue, in a park near the house where Steve had lived until he was twelve.

 

Nothing appeared out of place here either; it was a beautiful little green space, edged by a wrought-iron fence. A hand-lettered sign on the gate indicated that access to Steven G. Rogers Memorial Park was prohibited after ten p.m.

 

The statue, somewhat weathered but still clearly recognizable, had been put up by a neighbourhood association wanting to honour a fallen son of Brooklyn. The ongoing care and attention to the monument was evident in the rows of bright pansies at its base.

 

Peggy wished she had known about this place when she’d lived in Brooklyn. There was something about pansies that reminded her of spring. She had a sudden, vivid flash of memory—a visit to her grandmother’s house in springtime, and the slog through the mud up the hill to the old churchyard.

 

She thought, too, that the statue was one Steve might actually approve: it was modestly-sized, a fairly good likeness, and he was depicted in his dress uniform, instead of the costume that had made him a national icon.

 

Barton completed a fast-walking perimeter survey, then jogged back over to her, shaking his head.

 

Peggy examined the statue again, her heart sinking. She’d been so certain… could Barnes have meant something else entirely?

 

Or, perhaps, Peggy’s instincts were simply out of step with the time.

 

Barton had his phone out. “Natasha says nothing on their end either.”

 

“It’s odd,” Peggy observed, pointing down.

 

“What?”

 

“The flowers,” she said. “It’s nearly winter. Why would anyone plant fresh flowers?”

 

“I’m surprised they keep it up at all,” said Barton. “I mean, everyone knows by now that Cap isn’t...” Unable to make a definitive statement in the present tense, he simply stopped speaking.

 

Suddenly, Peggy saw the whole scene as if through new eyes: the little park, tucked away in a quiet neighbourhood, and off-limits to the public at night. The tidy garden plot, six feet long and two feet wide. The damp richness of the freshly-turned soil. The modest stone monument. She felt as though she’d been struck in the chest with a cinderblock.

 

She remembered now what it was about the pansies that made her think of the churchyard: they were one of the traditional flowers left on the graves of soldiers.

 

“Barton, call the others,” she said hoarsely. “I think we’ve found him.”


	19. On a Wing and a Prayer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is more violent than the story has been to date, and features descriptions of hand-to-hand fighting, knife fighting, and firearms. Please click through to the end notes for a full-spoiler synopsis if you need one.

“There’s definitely something down there,” said Bruce, waving the scanning wand over the mound of earth. “About four feet down. It’s the right mass and density… it’s generating some warmth. Not a lot.”

 

“Movement?” asked Natasha.

 

He shook his head.

 

Peggy snatched one of the shovels from Natasha’s hand. “We can’t afford to waste any more time.”

 

“We need to be careful,” Bruce cautioned, pointing to the handheld screen. “The fill isn’t packed in tight. He’s got a little pocket of air. If we cave it in, we could suffocate him trying to dig him out.”

 

Peggy wondered how it had happened—had Barnes deliberately left him with enough air to contemplate his fate? Had Steve managed to dig himself partly free before he succumbed?

 

It didn’t bear dwelling on.

 

Barton was poking in the flower bed, sifting soil between his fingers. “The ground won’t have settled much,” he observed. “The longest he could’ve been down there is—what, nineteen, twenty hours?”

 

“About that,” Natasha confirmed. She handed Peggy a pair of black gloves, identical to the ones she and Barton were wearing, then took the scanning equipment from Bruce, instructing him, “Watch the gate. We don’t need an audience.”

 

The next few minutes left Peggy with the distinct impression that Natasha had dug a trench at some point in her storied career. She had brought the necessary tools and supplies to mark out the spot, cut and shift the soft earth, and shore up the walls of the pit. It seemed to Peggy that they were making rather a small hole, but Natasha was the one wielding the scanning equipment; whether or not it was reciprocal, Peggy trusted her.

 

The digging became increasingly difficult as they progressed, owing to the deeper ground being almost frozen. Peggy and the two agents worked in near-silence for what seemed like hours before Natasha signaled them to stop.

 

Peggy knelt and scratched at the frigid earth, her fingers scraping against a hard, ridged surface. As she cleared away the debris, she found that it was the bottom of a shoe.

 

_Head down._ She could have sobbed at the inhumanity of it.

 

She remembered her talk with Bruce, about her strength being fuelled by emotion. Rather than push her feelings aside, she let the full weight of her anger and terror settle on her. She felt the change immediately: every muscle tightening in response, like the draw of a longbow.

 

They worked carefully, so carefully, to uncover the feet, then the ankles. Peggy recognized Steve’s running shoes. Painstakingly, they cleared away the plug of soil holding the legs in place, exposing the air pocket Bruce had described.

 

Barton aimed a flashlight down into the hole. “It’s him,” he confirmed.

 

Peggy and Natasha each took hold of an ankle. “On my mark,” said Peggy. “Pull!”

 

Between the three of them, they managed to draw Steve’s body from the earth.

 

With Natasha’s help, Peggy hauled him up out of the pit. He flopped onto his back, unconscious, dead weight.

 

His face was bruised, one eye swollen entirely shut. Beneath the streaks of dirt and blood, his complexion was ghastly, the colour of clay, and his lips were blue. He wasn’t breathing.

 

Peggy could hear Barton speaking to someone on the phone, presumably calling for help, but her brain couldn’t process the words, couldn’t grasp anything other than the immediate.

 

Natasha had Steve’s wrist and was taking his pulse; there was bloody dirt caked under his fingernails. “Heart’s beating,” she announced.

 

Peggy placed her palm on Steve’s forehead and tilted his head back until his jaw went slack; there was dirt clogging his nose, but there didn’t appear to be any in his mouth. His skin was dry, ice-cold; she was back in the awful nightmare, Steve’s body freezing solid beneath her hands.

 

Holding his head steady, she fitted her lips to his, made a tight seal, and blew hard, twice. She watched his chest rise, then fall. She waited. Nothing.

 

Natasha nodded to Peggy, who gave Steve another two breaths. Again, she watched his chest heave, and waited to see if he would breathe on his own. Still nothing.

 

“Don’t you dare,” she exhorted. “Don’t you _dare_ leave me again.”

 

There was a rattling sound; Steve gasped, then gave a weak cough. Peggy drew back and gave him room. He inhaled shakily and coughed once more, then turned away from her and vomited in the grass.

 

Natasha rolled him onto his side, wiping his face with her sleeve. She murmured something to Steve that Peggy didn’t catch, and Steve groaned in response.

 

Peggy slumped forward, breathing fast, feeling as though she’d been dropped from a great height.

 

“Nat,” said Barton sharply. 

 

A half-second later—the soft whine of a silenced gunshot. Two shots, one after the other: the double tap method. A killshot. Peggy felt a spray of grit against her arm even as she stood, and more of it hit her leg as she turned to follow the archer's gaze. The bullets had grazed the foot of the statue, but Peggy knew she must have been their intended target.

 

She saw him then, on the outside of the fence: a dark figure in a hooded jacket, lining up his next shot. 

 

Instantly, Peggy was running towards him—faster than she'd ever run in her life, the world around her blurring to colour and shadow. She felt utterly weightless, as though a single leap would send her soaring through the air.

 

“Carter!” Barton called after her. “Wait!”

 

Barnes continued to fire, two shots each time. Peggy rolled, tucking her knees up and then springing to her feet. She ran in an erratic pattern, trying keep him focused on her. He grazed her on the elbow, and caught her sharply on the calf, and then he’d expended his ammunition and she was still running.

 

His face registered surprise as Peggy vaulted over the wrought-iron fence and tackled him. 

 

He dropped the empty pistol and fell back a step, absorbing the impact of her body with his own. For a moment, they embraced each other, almost as old friends might. He was heavier than he looked, denser, his grip like iron as he squeezed her shoulder with a gloved hand. There was an odd, grating sound just near her ear, a clicking and whirring—

 

She saw the glint of sharpened steel just in time to twist in his grasp. The knife sliced cleanly through her sweater, and bit into the flesh of her hip. Fortunately (she told herself, imagining how she would frame the story to Pepper, after the fact), she had a little more cushioning to spare there than the average man.

 

Peggy knew where that blade was meant to go. She’d trained men in the use of a commando dagger, and used one herself. It was designed for two purposes: to cut a man’s throat from behind, quickly and silently, or to stick him between the ribs in a fight, through layers of heavy wool. A ragged artery would contract, effectively cauterizing itself; a clean cut with a sharp blade was the most effective. The best way was to angle the knife upwards, get under the ribcage—giving it a decent twist, if you could, to keep the wound from closing. You’d either hit the large artery on the back of the abdominal wall and bleed him dry, or you’d damage him a good deal in trying. _Under and up, gents_ , she used to tell the recruits in her charge. _Watch my hand. You see? Under and up._

 

She sized up the situation as quickly as she could: in addition to the knife, he also had a second pistol in a thigh holster. If he managed to reach that, or reload the first, it was all over—there was no way she’d be able to dodge or minimize the impact of a shot at such close range. She needed to keep moving, needed to keep him fighting with both hands until she could take one of the weapons from him.

 

She moved as if to box his throat, then dropped low and brought her knee up to his groin; not a direct hit, which he would almost certainly be armed against, but further back, aiming to set him off balance. It seemed to work, and she tried to grab the knife—but Barnes flipped it from one hand to the other, his left arm twisting in an improbable, almost fluid manner.

 

A sharp jab to the side of her head set her ears ringing. She struck his wrist, hard and fast, expecting to break it—then swore, as the heel of her hand made painful contact with some sort of metal gauntlet.

 

While she was momentarily distracted, he got his hand around her neck. Suddenly it all came clear: the metallic grinding noise was the sound of his robotic arm.

 

He lifted her off the ground, her chin scraping against his steel hand as he squeezed her throat closed. Every bit of training, every instinct Peggy had was useless—she’d only ever needed to protect herself from a two-handed grip.

 

Barnes seemed to be taking pleasure in his work, grinning as she struggled for breath.

 

She scrabbled at his arm with both hands, trying to stabilize herself or pry his fingers away, but to no avail. Her face felt tight and swollen, and her teeth tingled. Black spots started to appear in the periphery of her vision. She knew she was seconds away from blacking out.

 

_Bucky Barnes_ was going to be the instrument of her death. It was ludicrous. If she’d been able to draw breath, she might have laughed.

 

Disjointed thoughts flickered through her brain. She flashed on all of the people she’d loved in her short second life: Tony. Pepper. Her school friends. _Steve_.

 

Rage and desperation gave her a familiar surge of strength. She focused, and grabbed at his steely fingers again—and managed to get them to give a little. Barnes grunted and renewed his efforts, squeezing hard enough to crush her windpipe easily; she continued to resist, pulling his fingers apart inch by valuable inch, just enough to allow her to breathe.

 

She knew she couldn’t maintain it. She needed to make a play.

 

Keeping her grip on his fingers, Peggy swung her legs up and hooked one knee around Barnes’s arm, as though she were climbing the limb of a tree. An ordinary man wouldn’t have had the strength to hold her aloft, but Barnes could, and did. This gave her the leverage she needed to kick him in the face with her free leg, and on the second strike she was rewarded by the crunch of bone under her shoe. He grunted and released her throat; as she fell, she wrapped her legs around his shoulders and used the momentum to flip them both.

 

Barnes landed on his back with Peggy sitting astride his chest. She locked her legs around him, pinning his arms to his sides. If she could keep his bionic arm immobilized—keep him from getting hold of a knife or a gun—she might actually be able to make it out of this.

 

Barnes was attempting to use his legs to right himself. Peggy reached behind her and grabbed the pistol from his holster. It wasn’t one she was familiar with, but she didn’t imagine it could be all that different from what she was used to. She pointed it at his face.

 

“I’d be still if I were you, Barnes.”

 

He stopped moving. “That’s not my name,” he said thickly. His nose appeared to be broken, and possibly his jaw as well. He had the distinct imprint of a woman’s running shoe across his cheek.

 

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Peggy, airily, as though they were at a garden party. “What should I call you?”

 

He turned his head and spat, then said something dire-sounding in Russian. When she didn’t respond, he translated: “You can call me your death.” His inflection was flat, almost robotic.

 

Peggy didn’t scoff openly, but she couldn’t quite resist rolling her eyes a little. She had very little patience for dramatics, particularly when the man was on his back trying not to choke on his own blood.

 

She tightened her grip on him, realizing as she did so that her strength was starting to ebb away. She tried to maintain her anger, focusing on the revenge she would extract for Steve’s injuries, and Tony’s, and her own. She tried not to look too closely at the familiar face beneath the tumble of unruly hair.

 

“You’re stronger,” he observed, breathing hard. “Faster.”

 

“You know me, then?”

 

“It doesn’t mean anything,” he growled. “You’re a target. I knew Captain America too.”

 

“Steve,” she corrected. “You knew _Steve_.”

 

She hadn’t expected a reaction—she was trying to keep him talking long enough to figure out how the hell she was going to get out of this. But his mouth twisted in a way that made her think she’d scored a hit.

 

“You buried him alive,” she pressed. “Your oldest friend.”

 

“It was the only way.” He didn’t sound entirely certain of himself.

 

“The only way to what?”

 

“Don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing,” he snapped. “You’re stalling.” Peggy thought she could hear a note of panic in his voice.

 

“Did you know he cried, when he thought you’d died? I was there.”

 

“Shut _up_!” He made a sound that might have been either a laugh, or a sob. He was definitely unhinged.

 

“He wants to help you.” She felt the truth of the words, even as she said them. That was why Steve had cooperated with Fury’s plan. He thought that this violent murderer could be redeemed—that somewhere inside of the Winter Soldier beat the heart of Bucky Barnes.

 

“Why?”

 

“Because he cares about you. And because he’s a good man.”

 

“Good is relative.” The words sounded rote.

 

“You were a good man, once,” she said quietly.

 

His face turned ugly, distorted by rage.

 

He gave an anguished cry, twisting his left arm free and throwing her off. Peggy fell backwards, turning it into a roll and pushing up to a standing position again.

 

Barnes dove towards her. She had no choice. She pointed the pistol and pulled the trigger.

 

Nothing happened.

 

Cursing, Peggy felt for the unfamiliar safety latch. It was a moment of distraction she couldn’t afford.

 

She felt the white-hot pain in her abdomen even before she registered the movement of the knife in his hand. Warm blood was soaking the front of her clothes. The blade had slipped in neatly, through her sweater and t-shirt, just beneath her ribcage.

 

Under and up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Full Synopsis:** Peggy, Clint and Natasha dig Steve out of the ground. Steve is unconscious and not breathing. Peggy gives him artificial respiration and he starts to breathe again. The Winter Soldier arrives on the scene and shoots at Peggy, Natasha, and Clint; Peggy tackles him and they fight, the Winter Soldier drawing a knife. (Peggy thinks back to training recruits in the use of a commando dagger, in somewhat graphic detail.) He grabs her by the throat and chokes her to near-unconsciousness, but she holds him off long enough to kick him in the face (breaking his nose) and flip him onto his back. She takes his pistol. He struggles free, and she attempts to shoot him, but she hasn't disengaged the safety and the pistol doesn't fire. The Winter Soldier stabs her in the stomach. The chapter ends on an uncertain note.
> 
> **Notes:** Those among you who are keen on history would no doubt have noted that Peggy, fresh from 1946, would not be familiar with current resuscitation practices. This is quite true; however, she's been in 2012 for several months, and has had plenty of time to get basic first aid certification. Luckily for Steve.
> 
> Also, a shoutout to gatorjen, who was kind enough to confirm a key detail about firearms for me. It's a baseless generalization that Canadians know nothing about guns, but in my particular case the stereotype happens to fit.


	20. Blues in the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter continues directly on from the previous chapter and contains some graphic description of Peggy's injury.

Barnes gave the knife a savage jerk.

Peggy gasped, her breath rattling in her chest. The blade must have punctured a lung, she realized.

He pulled his hand back—a familiar, awful, wet sound.

The pistol dangled from her nerveless fingers, then slipped away, hitting the soft ground with a thud. She dropped to her knees, pressing both hands against the wound in a futile effort to staunch it.

Barnes grasped her by the hair and yanked her head back, exposing her throat.

Peggy closed her eyes. She knew it was cowardly, that she should be able to face her death like a good soldier ought. But she wasn’t a soldier anymore, and this wasn’t a war. This was utter madness.

She heard a high-pitched whistle as her lungs struggled fruitlessly. For the first time since her awakening, she felt truly, bitterly cold.

When he didn’t strike right away, curiosity got the better of her; she opened her eyes and looked up.

Barnes’s face was slack; his mouth was open, but no sound emerged. His fingers relaxed, releasing her hair. She fell back, watching in disbelief as he crumpled to the ground.

Which was when she noticed, somewhat belatedly, that there appeared to be an arrow stuck in his chest.

“You’re a tough old broad, Carter,” said Barton from behind her.

“Took your bloody time,” she rasped.

The archer knelt beside her, supporting her with an arm around the shoulders. “I had to wait on Natasha.” He helped Peggy to lie flat, and placed his hands over her own, which were stiff with blood and starting to go numb. “He clipped her in the shoulder, a second before you took off. Couldn’t leave her looking after Cap on her own until she had it handled.” He pressed down, painfully hard.

“I wondered why… neither of you… followed my lead.” She kept having to pause to take in air, but she was determined to get the words out.

“We need to improve your teamwork. Maybe do some trust exercises.” Barton was scanning her carefully, head to toe. “This is a nasty little sting. He get you anywhere else?”

Peggy shook her head once, then immediately stopped when she found it made her dizzy. The entire right side of her head was throbbing. “Steve?” She had trouble saying more than that, but Barton understood.

“Still breathing.”

Peggy glanced over at Barnes, who lay where he’d fallen. Barton didn’t seem particularly concerned about him rallying. It was humiliating—one lone arrow had been all it took to do what she couldn’t manage, even with the benefit of her training and her enhanced strength.

“Paralytic,” Barton explained, as if sensing the source of her chagrin. “Interrupts the electrical impulses between the brain and the body. He’s conscious, but he won’t be able to move until it’s taken out. Stark made it for me. Cool, huh?”

“Very clever.”

Her right ear was buzzing painfully. Her voice sounded tinny and faint in her head, as if she were hearing it through a bad long-distance connection. The world around her seemed to telescope outwards, and she felt suddenly, violently sick to her stomach. She wanted nothing more than to detach, to float away and leave her battered body behind.

“Come on, Carter, keep talking to me.”

Peggy closed her eyes, observing, “This is all very unpleasant.”

From somewhere far above her, she thought she heard Barton snicker.

*

Peggy woke to a bright light in her eyes, and a devil of a headache. She felt as though she were revolving in slow circles, as though adrift on a raft in a gentle current. She tried to shield her face from the light with her hand, but something was weighing down her arms.

All at once, she knew with absolute conviction what was happening: SHIELD was forcing her back into cryogenic sleep. She wasn’t going to let it happen, she was going to fight them to her last breath, she—

“Shit,” said a voice she didn’t recognize. “She’s moving.”

“Grab her shoulders.”

“Jesus, she’s strong, can you—”

“Honey, we need you to stay real still, okay?”

She had the distinct sensation of a large fishing-hook, lodged just beneath her ribs, yanking on her insides. She coughed on dry air, her throat closing around a solid object. She strained against her bonds, and felt them start to give way.

“Hey, hey, don’t do that—”

“Code white, we’ve got a code white situation—”

She tried to call for help, but something was jammed in her mouth, scraping the back of her throat. Her mouth felt parched, her tongue twice its regular size.

Peggy felt her limbs go slack, her brain foggy. _I’m sorry, Steve_ , she thought. _I’m not strong enough_.

“What’d she say?”

“I don’t think she knows what she’s saying.”

“Shh, honey, you’re okay.”

“There she goes,” said someone, and then—

*

The bright light and the headache were back, but the venue appeared to have changed. The colour of the walls and ceiling gave her a powerful sense of déjà vu, but it was some moments before she realized where she was: the SHIELD hospital.

The surgeon came by to speak with her; Peggy instantly recognized her as one of the voices she’d heard in her delirium. She confirmed what Peggy had already mostly worked out on her own. They hadn’t really tried to put her back into cryo, of course—they’d been operating on the wound in her abdomen, and her enhanced cells had burned through the anaesthetic somewhere in the middle of it.

“We really thought you were going to go on a rampage for a few seconds there,” she said admiringly.

Peggy apologized for the damage she’d caused in the operating theatre, but Dr. Wu seemed more impressed than annoyed.

Peggy, by contrast, didn’t feel anything at all—only exhaustion, which she compensated for with a sort of polite blankness. She couldn’t even rouse herself enough to ask what had happened to Steve and the others; she assumed someone would be along to tell her eventually.

Dr. Wu asked a few more questions, and seemed satisfied with the answers. She explained in more detail about Peggy’s injuries and recovery, and Peggy tried to appear interested.

As soon as the doctor was gone, she went back to sleep.

*

This time, Peggy drifted awake to the sound of low talking.

She squinted into the brightness until the blotches of colour solidified into rough shapes. She recognized Tony first: he had his bandaged hands in his lap, and was seated facing away from Pepper, who appeared to be running her fingernails down his back.

“I’m surprised none of your machines can do this,” Pepper was saying.

“A couple can. None of them are as good as you.” Tony sighed in relief. “I should take a cast of your fingertips.”

“Mm, nope. Creepy.”

“Can you—under the shirt? Yeah. That’s it.”

Peggy didn’t want to eavesdrop on her friends—but she didn’t want to interrupt them, either, so she kept her eyes closed and her breathing steady, waiting for an opportune moment to officially wake up.

“You should quit your job and just do this,” Tony remarked.

“Scratch your back? All day? Are you going to pay me the same salary?”

“Double. Easy. Done.”

“When you don’t need me anymore, will I get severance pay?”

“I’ll always need you, Pepper.”

 _Good on you, Tony_ , Peggy thought.

All was quiet, and then there was a low gurgling noise.

Tony gave a bark of laughter. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Ugh, who has time?”

“We’re getting pizza after this.”

“No, thank you, Mr. Stark.”

“I swear it’s not a come-on. Pepper— _Pepper_. I’m recovering from a groundbreaking procedure.”

“Subtle.”

“You called it that in the _New York Times_! ‘This groundbreaking procedure represents an advancement in medical technology…’ Ah, yeah, right there—”

“It sounded better than ‘This crazy thing Tony decided he wanted to do, that I, for some reason, supported.’”

“So, pizza?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Sex is off the table until I get these bandages off. I wouldn’t object if you wanted to cuddle, though.”

“I said I’ll _think_ about it.”

The trouble with pretending to be asleep is, after a while, one forgets to pretend. Peggy lost the thread of the conversation entirely, and found herself drifting off.

*

When Peggy surfaced again, the room was dark. Once her eyes had adjusted, she was able to discern a solitary figure, sitting in a chair beside the bed. Long legs outstretched, head tilted back, hands folded in his lap.

She must have made a sound, or a sudden movement; Steve grunted, shifted in the chair, and sat up. “Peggy?”

“Hello,” she said hoarsely.

He reached up over her head and switched on the lamp. His colour was much improved since she’d seen him last; however, his face was scraped and swollen, and at that particularly ugly stage of bruising in which one had the look of an impressionist sunset.

“You look dreadful,” she told him.

He took a phone out of his pocket, and let her look at herself using the camera. The image was grainy, but she could see that her own face looked rather mashed up as well. She’d taken the worst of it on her right ear and along her jaw, but she also had butterfly closures over one cheek and both eyebrows. Her hair was an absolute fright, lanky and matted, and her lips seemed pale and papery without their usual slash of rich carmine.

“We’re a matched set,” he said, with an expression that might have been a smile, or a wince.

“I haven’t healed,” she observed dully.

“You might want to try getting annoyed at something.” In a teasing tone, he suggested, “I can ask Tony to come back?”

“You’ve been talking to Bruce.”

“Yeah. I’m all caught up.” One elbow rested on the edge of the bed, his fingers toying idly with a lock of her hair.

“Is this my phone?”

“I figured I’d hang on to it for you.” He pulled his chair closer, mindful of her various tubes, and gently laid an arm around her shoulders. She surged towards him, pressing into his chest until she was nearly toppling out of bed. It was awkward and uncomfortable and she didn’t care.

Steve made a couple of attempts to rearrange them both; at length, he gave a sigh of concession, pronounced her “stubborn as all get-out,” and moved to the bed. He propped himself against the headboard, legs sprawled on top of the covers; she settled against his side, her head coming to rest on his shoulder.

He was warm, and that, more than anything, convinced her she wasn’t dreaming.

“How did it happen?” she asked.

The story tumbled out of him, somewhat disjointedly: Barnes, working for the Soviets as the Winter Soldier, had been kept in cryogenic sleep between missions, using a procedure similar to the one used to freeze Peggy.

The equipment had either malfunctioned, or been sabotaged; either way, Barnes came out of his sleep unaided, alone, and without the clarity of purpose that was usually supplied by his programmers. It wasn’t clear what had happened to them, or why he had been abandoned, though Natasha apparently had some theories, and was on her way to visit the facility in question even as they spoke.

Barnes had got it into his head somehow that he needed to capture Steve and bring him back to the facility—that Steve was an assassin like himself, a defector, who needed to be reprogrammed.

“Natasha told me they sent him to bring her back at one point,” Steve explained. “He got confused, and he remembered me, I guess, a little, so.” She felt his massive shoulders heave in a shrug. “I thought I could… see him in there, at times. I kept thinking if I just reasoned with him, he’d snap out of it.”

Peggy squeezed his fingers, every bone in her hand protesting as she did so. She wondered whether there was a single part of her left undamaged.

Barnes had drugged Steve with a cocktail of medications he’d brought with him from the cryo facility. Steve had been immobilized, but still conscious, when Barnes had buried him; his goal, as far as Steve had been able to figure out, had been to get Steve’s body temperature down enough to induce a state of hibernation.

“Bruce has this idea,” he said, “that that was always the plan for me. That I survived in the ice was because I was programmed for it. The SSR planned to freeze me—them—the army of supersoldiers they planned on making—once they won the war. In case they were ever needed again.”

Peggy knew, the moment he said it, that he was right. Briar Rose hadn’t been a new idea; just a new application of something that had been in the works all along. Neither the Americans nor the Soviets had hesitated to play God with people’s lives.

“I had no idea,” she told him, defeated. “I would never have been a party to it.”

Steve nodded. “I know you wouldn’t. But I think that’s why Howard kept looking for me. He knew something you didn’t.”

“What a mess,” she said, pulling at her blankets savagely. “What an awful, utter muck-up we’ve made of things.”

“You didn’t,” he pointed out. “Natasha said you were the one who found me.”

She wished to God he would stop talking about Natasha.

“And…” he added, his voice going thin, “I heard you. Calling me back.”

“Yes, well,” she snapped back, “ _someone_ bloody well had to. Honestly, Steve, I don’t—”

Which was as far as she got, before the ultimate indignity: she began to cry.

Not the dramatic, self-indulgent sobs of youth, but profound, steady, bitter weeping. These were the tears she hadn’t allowed herself to shed while Steve had been missing, because it wouldn’t have been productive.

It wasn’t particularly productive now, but at least she had the luxury of time.

Steve held her, too carefully, until the tears finally subsided. Then he kissed the side of her face, avoiding the areas that were split or bruised.

“My hero,” he said softly.

It hurt like blazes to kiss him, but she did it anyway.


	21. Day by Day

Peggy remained in the hospital for over a week. She suspected it was more for the doctors’ benefit than her own; while her recovery was progressing far too slowly for her liking, it was nothing short of miraculous compared to what she could have expected before the change. Dr. Wu took daily measurements and, with Peggy’s permission, photographs.

 

For her own part, Peggy tried not to observe the healing process too closely—particularly since the pace seemed to depend greatly on her mood. Any drastic swell of feeling, positive or negative, would bring on the feverish restlessness that signalled her enhancements kicking in. The night she’d cried on Steve’s shoulder, while emotionally draining, had been beneficial in that respect.

 

If she stayed too still, if she dwelled on it too long, she could actually _feel_ her torn insides knitting back together. Besides being rather an uncanny sensation, it itched incessantly.

 

Fortunately, she had a parade of well-wishers to distract her.

 

Pepper was one of her most frequent guests, stopping by whenever her schedule permitted. With her trademark practicality and keen grasp of the feminine essentials, she brought Peggy a pair of slippers, a robe, and a few comfortable night-dresses (with snaps instead of those useless little ties). On her next visit, she produced a toiletries kit that included a small canister of dry shampoo, a hairbrush, and a hand mirror.

 

Thus armed, Peggy was able to make herself at least somewhat presentable for her other regular visitor.

 

Steve came faithfully every evening, and had somehow charmed his way into being allowed to stay after visiting hours. They’d both given up all pretense of decorum by this point, so Steve usually spent most of his visits balanced precariously on the edge of her little bed while she snuggled into his side. It couldn’t possibly have been comfortable for him, but he never uttered a word of complaint on the subject.

 

She was generally quite tired by the time he arrived, so Steve did most of the talking—sticking to easy topics such as what he’d eaten that day, how the traffic had been, and (naturally) the weather.

 

She would curl up, blanketed in his gentle, quiet words, and doze off with her head resting on his chest, waking just enough for a drowsy kiss goodnight when he gently shifted her onto her pillow.

 

It was, invariably, the best part of her day.

 

*

 

Early one morning, Barton dropped by—bringing with him decent coffee, at long last. Peggy closed her eyes in pure delight as she took her first sip; it was scalding hot, milky, and just the right amount of bitter, the best she’d had in ages.

 

“Wow.” He drew the word out in obvious amusement. “You want me to leave you two alone?”

 

“Quiet, I want to enjoy this. I can’t stomach the dishwater they serve here, not after the last time.”

 

“Don’t let anyone hear you say that.” He pulled up a chair without waiting to be invited. “They’ll switch you to decaf.”

 

She cradled the paper cup in her lap, lovingly, and inquired, “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

 

“When I was tailing you, I read your file.”

 

Peggy clucked sympathetically. “How frightfully dull for you.”

 

“You’re a sharpshooter.”

 

“I was, once upon a time.”

 

He leaned over and gave her elbow a little jog, as if trying to wake her from a sound sleep. “Feeling sorry for yourself, Carter?”

 

“It’s not about my delicate feminine sensibilities.” She bit the words off crisply, one by one, levelling an icy glare. “I was very nearly _gutted_ because my skills weren’t up to snuff.”

 

Unperturbed, Barton replied, “We can fix that. Do you have clothes here?”

 

Peggy was able to scrounge up a pair of loose drawstring hospital pants; with some careful maneuvering, she managed to get these on over her nightdress. She completed this fetching ensemble with her fluffy pink slippers, and a nylon windbreaker that Steve had left behind on his last visit. The waistband of the jacket fell to about mid-thigh on Peggy; the overall effect was one of a child playing dressup.

 

Barton made a crack about it being a hot look, which was met with the contemptuous silence it deserved.

 

She half-expected the SHIELD firing range to be computerized or ‘virtual,’ as was the case in some of the science-fiction films she’d seen with her college friends. She was pleased to discover that it was, in fact, a traditional shooting gallery: long individual lanes, ringed silhouettes printed on paper targets.

 

As if to show that the operation wasn’t completely out of date, Barton had to submit to a biometric scan in order to be allowed into the weapons locker. He resurfaced with a pair of pistols, along with the requisite protective gear for eyes and ears. They donned both, and Barton handed her one of the guns; it was small, black, and blunt.

 

“Baby Glock,” he said. “Natasha likes this one. Easy to hide, better for tiny hands. You might want something a little bigger, but we can start with this and work up.”

 

Each chose a lane, and Barton quickly demonstrated breaking down the firearm into its component parts: “Recoil spring, barrel, slide.” He reassembled it, loaded it, and fired once, while Peggy observed, carefully folding back the sleeves of her giant windbreaker.

 

He gestured for her to go ahead.

 

She snapped in the clip and chambered a round, her hands less steady than she would have liked. The last time Peggy had held a loaded pistol was the moment before she’d been…

 

She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, until the memory faded and a different one surfaced: the shooting gallery at Coney Island, with its little tin ducks. The astonishment on the face of the young man running the attraction as she picked off the targets in a leisurely manner, one by one. She held that moment in her mind, that supreme confidence in the steadiness of her own hands, until she felt ready.

 

A split-second before she squeezed the trigger, her companion tapped on the glass that divided the lanes, breaking her focus. The shot went wide—the pistol was lighter than she was used to, and very responsive.

 

Barton gave a long, low whistle.

 

Peggy ignored him. She rolled her shoulders, widened her stance, and adjusted her grip.

 

The second shot was better—she’d made the target this time, at least.

 

Fixing her gaze on the concentric circles, she had another flash of memory: the time she’d fired on Steve, who’d been holding the vibranium shield. She had known, of course, about its ability to absorb impact; she’d helped Howard test it, before he’d lost interest in the simplicity of the design, due to its lack of moving parts or electrical current.

 

She’d been absolutely enraged, both with the things Steve had said and the far worse things he’d implied. She knew him better now—knew that it would never occur to Steve to speculate, in a room full of their colleagues, about whether she’d attained her position in the SSR while lying on her back. But at the time, she’d been angry and hurt and her only thought had been that she needed to put the fear of God into him, to remind him that she owed her achievements to no man.

 

And she’d succeeded magnificently.

 

The memory, the mere ghost of that rage, made her blood rise. Her senses felt keener, her vision sharper.

 

“Come on, grandma,” taunted Barton, who had finished his own shooting by this time. “What is this, a tea party? I thought you were gonna take me to church.”

 

Peggy made a rude gesture—rude where she came from, anyhow—and lined up the next shot quickly, one-handed, giving herself no time to think.

 

Dead center.

 

So was the next one. And the one after that.

 

Barton tried her on a few different handguns before placing something on the shelf that Peggy recognized instantly:

 

“Walther PPK. This is what I had before.”

 

“Yeah, they don’t change much.”

 

“It’s the only thing I still miss about the war,” she admitted. “Other than smoking.”

 

Peggy didn’t care for the flashiness of the burnished steel, but the pistol felt like an extension of her hand and fired like a dream. Rather than aiming for the centre of the target, she focused one of the outer rings, laying down her shots in a precise circle until the middle of the paper target detached and floated delicately to the floor.

 

After expending the clip, she removed her headgear and said, with satisfaction, “Yes. That’s the one.”

 

Barton nodded his agreement.

 

The security doors opened and a mixed party of agents trickled in—rookies, by the look of them, putting in their practice hours.

 

Peggy reluctantly turned the pistol over to Barton, and slipped into the hall to wait for him to check it in, before anyone had time to wonder about her presence or her strange attire.

 

When he joined her a moment later, he asked, “You want outside for a health break before we go back?”

 

“Health break?”

 

“Fresh air.” He mimed taking a drag of a cigarette.

 

“You’re a bad influence, Barton.”

 

He shrugged.

 

“Better not,” she said, not without regret. “I’ve got another visitor coming shortly, and one must put one’s best foot forward.”

 

*

 

“So,” said Fury, tenting his fingers. “You changed your mind about our deal.”

 

“Hardly that. Just a slight adjustment to the original timeline.”

 

“You insisted that we send you to school. But now that you’ve added that line item to the budget, you want to quit. It doesn’t exactly instil me with confidence about your future performance. And I’m not sure why I should be doing you any favours right now.”

 

“I’ve agreed to work for SHIELD, and I don’t intend to go back on my word. But you might grant me a small measure of control over my own life.” Peggy shifted carefully in her chair—it was still uncomfortable for her to sit, but she was damned if she would have this conversation lying down. “I’ll miss weeks of classes while I’m recovering—and even if I went back straight away, I’d still need to provide a cover story for my absence. I may as well stay and begin my field training. And I _did_ manage to recover Captain Rogers, and bring in the Winter Soldier, with the help of your agents.”

 

She thought that Fury might go for the obvious objection: that she’d only done so by blundering into his overarching strategy, and nearly getting herself killed in the process. Instead, he remarked, “I hear you found your way to the range.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“How was it?”

 

“Fantastic,” said Peggy, with genuine feeling. “I was a bit surprised that I was allowed out of my room—though, of course, Agent Barton probably filed a surveillance report afterwards.”

 

She had to give Fury credit—he didn’t so much as blink at the implication. “There were a lot of coincidences attached to your re-appearance,” he replied evenly. “I’m a man who doesn’t believe in coincidence.”

 

“Yes, Agent Romanoff was kind enough to explain your reasoning. Still, I’ve no doubt that Captain Rogers would have been willing to vouch for my authenticity.”

 

“You’ll forgive me for pointing out that he might be emotionally compromised.”

 

Peggy was willing to take that one on the chin. “Naturally.”

 

“You’ve got a lot of other support, though. Dr. Banner trusts you. Stark seems to have taken a personal interest.”

 

“But you don’t trust them?”

 

“Trust is a luxury that I can’t afford.”

 

Peggy nodded.

 

“However,” the director continued, “there are certain people whose opinions I value above others. Agent Romanoff is one of those people. And _she_ trusts you.”

 

Peggy was surprised, enough so that she let a small measure of it show on her face. Given their previous exchanges, and Peggy’s catastrophic failure to take down Barnes, she would have thought Natasha would be the _last_ person to stand up for her.

 

“I told her to put her money where her mouth is,” Fury continued. “She’s going to train you.”

 

This had been his plan all along, she realized; he’d wanted to see what she would do, whether she would ask to stay of her own accord.

 

“When you’re ready, she’ll assign you a partner.”

 

“Not Steve,” she said quickly. As much as she’d missed their working together, recent and painful experience had proven that she was likely to be emotionally compromised if Steve’s safety was at sake.

 

“No,” agreed Fury. “We have a few candidates on the roster with open dance cards. We’ll see who Agent Romanoff has in mind.”

 

*

 

The morning she was released, Peggy texted Pepper; the latter was in a meeting, but offered to send her driver. She was obviously having a bit of fun with Peggy, as it was Tony who turned up to drive her back to the Tower.

 

He was especially solicitous, pushing her to the main doors in a wheelchair despite her insistence that she could walk. His hands, she noted, were free of the bandages, and completely without blemish—albeit slightly pinker than the rest of him.

 

“Synthetic skin graft,” he explained. “Experimental. Cutting edge.”

 

“Very lifelike.” Hearing herself say it, Peggy wondered whether that wasn’t a poor word choice, but Tony didn’t seem to take it amiss.

 

“The skin pigment and the finer details are inked on, like a tattoo. Including the fingerprints,” he added, taking one hand off the steering wheel to waggle his fingers in front of her face. “They’re completely smooth. Baby hands. Pepper’s still getting used to it.”

 

“Hands at ten and two, please. I’ve no desire to go back into hospital before we leave the parking lot.” The statement about Pepper, delivered in such an off-the-cuff manner, was an obvious bait, so Peggy ignored it. “How experimental, exactly?”

 

“It’s never been tested large-scale—we were waiting for the right volunteer. I wasn’t planning to be it, but hey.” He shrugged.

 

“Your father used to do that all the time,” Peggy mused. “Test things on himself before they were ready. Only he usually wound up with a concussion, or with his eyebrows burnt off.”

 

“I’m not gonna say it’s _never_ happened.”

 

“Howard was terribly vain about it. He insisted that I draw them back on for him.”

 

“I got Pepper to do mine,” admitted Tony, who had a definite case of what Peggy’s friend Charlotte would call _mentionitis_.

 

“Well, one day, I was a bit cross with him, and I deliberately made them crooked. He spent the entire day looking perplexed.”

 

Tony’s own eyebrows gave a comical little jump. “Did he notice?”

 

“Did you ever know him to pass a shiny surface without even a glance? Of _course_ he noticed. But there wasn’t much to be done about it by that point, and he didn’t dare ask me again. He had to put up with people asking him all day long what the trouble was.”

 

Tony gave an appreciative nod.

 

“It’s very kind of you to let me stay.” Peggy had thought that Steve might offer to put her up when she got out of the hospital. However, he never broached the topic with her, and while Peggy was making an effort to get past her own recalcitrance and communicate more openly, she still felt that it would be a massive breach of common courtesy to invite herself to be his houseguest. “I’ll try not to overextend my welcome,” she added.

 

“No, no. Stay as long as you need,” said Tony. “There’s just one thing: I had to store a large, annoying item in your suite. If you need me to put it somewhere else, just say the word.”

 

“What sort of item?”

 

He gave her the Stark family smirk, the one that always meant trouble. “You’ll see.”

 

*

 

Peggy’s suite had been at a museum-quality level of cleanliness the last time she’d seen it.

 

Now, there was a stack of dirty crockery by the kitchen sink, abandoned coffee cups scattered about the living room, and puddles of discarded clothing in the bathroom. The kitchen counter had a sticky sheen to it; there were dark finger-smudges on the white door jamb, and dirty footprints in areas where someone had obviously not bothered to clean or remove their shoes.

 

Peggy was about to ask JARVIS to explain, when Steve emerged from the bedroom. He was barefoot, in jeans and a thin t-shirt; he looked slightly rumpled, his face flushed, his hair sticking up in the back. He’d been napping in her bed, she realized.

 

Though, since Tony had originally conceived of the suite—and the bed—for Steve, she supposed that he might look at it the other way around.

 

“You’re here,” he said, rather redundantly.

 

“Yes. Tony dropped me off. He didn’t mention that you were…”

 

Steve sighed. “That makes two of us. He was supposed to give me a day’s notice.”

 

He was temporarily homeless, he explained, until SHIELD completed whatever bureaucratic machinations were needed to release his apartment.

 

“I doubt they’re gonna find anything. Pretty sure there’s some rookie field agent over there, drinking my beer and scratching my records,” he added wryly.

 

“I was surprised to see that you had such a collection of them,” she observed. “I’d been quite under the impression that you were thoroughly modernized.”

 

“Well.” A vague gesture. “You know.”

 

Peggy did know. There were things that she’d collected too: a few pieces of jewellery, some books, a lovely beaded handbag. Little treasures that had been set adrift, and had somehow washed ashore in this faraway country called _the future_ , just as she had.

 

“I see you’ve already made yourself at home,” she observed, glancing around. The disastrous state of the suite could have been an anomaly, but having seen Steve’s own apartment, Peggy doubted it.

 

Steve followed her gaze, with a slightly hangdog expression that confirmed her suspicions. “I’ll ask Tony to put me up on another floor,” he suggested.

 

Peggy’s first instinct was to feel annoyed and slightly hurt by the offer, and to snap back a crushing retort. But she remembered the pledge she’d made to herself—to speak plainly about her feelings, to tell people, particularly Steve, exactly what it was she wanted.

 

“I’d prefer it if you stayed here, with me.”

 

Steve looked surprised, but pleased. “Sure,” he said readily.

 

“It’s not a permanent arrangement,” she warned.

 

“Right, no, of course—”

 

“And I’m not keeping house for you.”

 

“Gotcha.”

 

Somewhat incongruously, she launched herself into his arms. She hugged him tightly, pressing her face against the wall of his chest.

 

“Don’t _ever_ do anything so bloody stupid again,” she murmured.

 

“Okay,” said Steve, squeezing her in return. Then, more softly: “You either.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know anything about guns. Anything at all. I read some manuals and I watched some videos on Youtube. If there are mistakes related to guns in this chapter, I'm okay with it, so no need to let me know. Thank you.


	22. Pistol Packin' Mama

Peggy had expected her SHIELD training to be a bit like her time in the long-term care ward: interminable hours of dull studying, punctuated by occasional mild exercise. She was pleasantly surprised to discover that this was not the case.

 

There was a bit of reading involved, of course; however, the majority of the subjects were of greater interest, and adhered to Peggy’s memory more easily, than the finer points of early American history. She passed her entrance exams without much trouble.

 

The first few weeks of practical training consisted mostly of acquiring necessary skills and certifications. Peggy had to be licensed to own and carry a firearm, and she had to qualify with a pistol, carbine, and shotgun. She had to learn to drive a car, a truck, a motorcycle, and a boat—and, to her very great delight, to pilot a small aircraft. Then she had to practice a variety of tactical situations in each. That part was rather fun, especially the flying bits.

 

Barton, who had logged enough hours in the air to qualify as an instructor, took her up on practice flights.

 

“I always wanted to fly,” she confided, over drinks, after their first time up. “My brothers all went into the RAF. I’d have gone too, if they’d have taken me. I thought about chopping off all my hair and trying anyhow, but I knew I’d be caught eventually. Besides which,” she added, giving her head a theatrical toss, “I’m quite vain about my hair.”

 

“Their loss,” said Barton, who never failed to pointedly ignore any opportunity to give her a compliment. “What happened to your brothers?”

 

Peggy drained her glass. “Died in their boots.”

 

He stood her another whiskey and soda, and they toasted the memory of absent brothers.

 

Natasha supervised all of Peggy’s training, and gave personal instruction in the areas where Peggy had the most experience: infiltration, surveillance, extraction. She wasn’t much for assigned reading, and the entire city served as her classroom.

 

She sent Peggy to crowded public places, and gave her tasks to complete: complex sequences of drops and pickups, character quick-changes, memory tests—the parameters of which could be altered at any time by a single text message.

 

She would drive Peggy to remote locations, blindfolded, and leave her to navigate her way back, without cell phone, food, or wilderness supplies.

 

She had Peggy tail her through unfamiliar parts of town—in disguise, of course—and would dock points if Peggy lost her, or let herself be spotted. This was more difficult than it sounded, as one never knew when Natasha might decide to go up the side of a building, or into a grate or an air vent. Peggy ruined more than one pair of shoes scrambling about after her. Natasha was also somewhat smaller than she, and seemed to delight in choosing especially tight fits, leaving Peggy feeling as though she’d been scraped raw all over.

 

Peggy began to despise the buzzing of her cell phone during surveillance exercises—it would inevitably be a text from Natasha, something along the lines of:

 

_nice glasses :) try harder_.

 

All told, Natasha was an excellent instructor: she challenged Peggy, but never belittled or patronized on those rare occasions when Peggy didn’t come up to scratch. She was hard to impress, but gave credit where it was due, and advice when it was needed.

 

When sparring, Natasha gave no quarter, and she used every dirty trick in her assassin’s arsenal to gain the upper hand. She alternated between physical jabs and emotional ones, obviously aiming to make Peggy’s temper flare.

 

Peggy learned to recognize the tipping point—to feel her engine turn over, as it were—and channel it, productively, while maintaining a measure of control.

 

After one particularly savage strike left her bloody-mouthed and bloody-minded, Peggy flew at the smaller woman and grappled her to the ground with her thighs, landing astride Natasha's shoulders.

 

Flat on her back, Natasha grinned maliciously. “You should try that move out on Steve when you get home. He likes it, trust me.”

 

Rather than getting annoyed, Peggy found herself drawing from some wellspring of amusement, the laughter bubbling up inside her.

 

“Oh, _please_ ,” she scoffed. “You talk as though I haven't known him since before you were born. You don't threaten me.”

 

This time, Natasha's smile was genuine. “Good.”

 

*

 

In point of fact, Peggy hadn’t had much opportunity to try out _any_ of her moves on Steve recently. Her training schedule was a full one, and most days she was out the door early and dragging herself home late.

 

Steve, who had been put on mandatory leave after the incident with Barnes, was also often gone for long stretches. She knew he ran in the mornings, but he’d been somewhat vague about how he filled the rest of the hours in the day.

 

On those rare occasions they both happened to be home at once, he was always pleasant and solicitous—helping her tend her growing assortment of scratches and bruises, making her tea, running her a hot bath. The first evening she arrived home in her smoke-grey SHIELD recruit jumpsuit, Steve’s appreciation was plainly written on his face. But when they spoke, it was obvious that his thoughts were elsewhere.

 

Peggy didn’t need to ask where.

 

*

 

“I want to see him.”

 

Barton didn’t need to ask who she meant. “I can get you in,” he said. “How’s tomorrow morning?”

 

“That’s fine, I’m not meeting Natasha until noon. You don’t think it strange,” she observed.

 

“I did the same thing. After Manhattan, with Loki. Had to, I guess. To prove to myself I could.”

 

“Would you mind being there with me?” She felt it would be impossibly unfair to ask Steve to accompany her, though she knew he would have done it in an instant.

 

Barton shook his head. “Not if you don’t mind being there with me.”

 

The meaning behind his cryptic remark became clearer when they ventured into the Vault. Peggy, armed with her newly-minted security pass, was treated with polite neutrality by the SHIELD agents at each checkpoint, but Barton was met with either stony silence or open hostility.

 

In the observation room, it felt strange being on the other side of the glass—captor instead of captive.

 

The cell reminded Peggy of the quiet room, where she’d spent an anxious, sleepless night after making the discovery about her super-healing—but without even a mattress bolted to the floor for comfort.

 

Barnes was seated on the floor, legs splayed haphazardly, as though he’d simply slumped against the wall and had chosen to lie where he’d fallen. There appeared to be a shackle of some kind around the wrist of his metal arm, presumably to limit its strength. She wondered whether he’d also been drugged.

 

Kitty-corner to him, braced against the plain white wall, was Natasha. She also sat, hugging a knee to her chest, the other leg folded beneath her. The posture struck Peggy as very deliberate: non-threatening, but not openly vulnerable.

 

A flimsy plastic tray had been placed on the floor, within reach of both of them. Peggy could almost taste the meal—stew and bread, the same wallpaper paste and cardboard she’d eaten in the long-term care ward upstairs. And no utensils to eat it with.

 

“He said we were brothers,” Barnes was saying, in his flat voice. “He’s a liar.”

 

“No.”

 

“ _Yes._ ” He flexed his flesh fingers menacingly.

 

Peggy flinched. She knew Barton had to have noticed; mercifully, he refrained from comment.

 

“There are people here who will lie to you,” Natasha told him evenly. “He isn’t one of them. You were close like brothers, that’s what he means when he says that. He’s trying to help you remember.”

 

So Steve _had_ been to see him.

 

In Russian, Barnes spat, “Why are you here, then? You think of yourself as my _sister_?” The words were mocking, cruel.

 

“No.” Natasha answered in English, her gaze never wavering. “You were kind to me once, when I was young. I don't like owing people favours.”

 

“You never did.”

 

She nudged the tray towards him with her foot. “You should eat that. It’s even more disgusting when it’s cold.”

 

Barnes canted his head, inspecting the offering. There was a momentary glimmer of emotion in Natasha’s green eyes; by the time he glanced up at her again, it was gone.

 

Peggy wasn’t sure how it could have taken her this long to divine the secret, when Natasha had been hiding it in plain sight.

 

“She loves him.”

 

Barton turned and considered Peggy for a moment, as if he was deciding which version of the truth to tell. Finally, he settled on a simple, “Yeah.”

 

“What about you?”

 

“Me? I think he’s an asshole who wears way too much eyeliner. And that’s coming from a guy who used to wear stage makeup.”

 

Peggy prodded his arm with her elbow. “Don’t pout. You haven’t got the right sort of face for it.”

 

“Yeah, thanks.”

 

Inside the cell, Natasha had broken off a small corner of the bread in Barnes’s tray, dipped it in the stew, and popped it into her mouth, seemingly nonchalant. He scrutinized her face as she chewed and swallowed.

 

“When were you on the stage?” asked Peggy. “I can’t feature you as Hamlet.”

 

“In the circus.”

 

“Oh, codswallop.”

 

Barton grinned. “I’ll tell you that story sometime.”

 

They watched as Barnes took the hunk of bread and pushed the entire thing into his mouth. He swallowed hugely, eyes bulging, resembling nothing so much as a large boa constrictor.

 

“You’re right,” he said. “Tastes like shit.”

 

He sounded so much like his old self that Peggy was taken aback. No wonder Steve had thought he might be able to get through to him. And apparently, still did think it.

 

Natasha said something in Russian, too quickly for Peggy to catch; Barnes nodded, and cracked a small smile.

 

“How exhausting,” Peggy mused. “Caring for someone who’s lost to you.”

 

Barton replied, “It happens.”

 

*

 

The exercise that afternoon was short, and Natasha didn’t seem to be in the mood for conversation. Which was understandable, all things considered.

 

Peggy arrived home around tea-time to find a note from Steve, explaining that he wouldn’t be back until late, and asking her not to wait up for him. The note didn’t say where he’d gone.

 

Fortunately, despite the short notice, Pepper had an opening in her social calendar. They went to a Japanese restaurant, where Pepper tried to introduce Peggy to sushi, with varying degrees of success. Peggy liked the warm sake, the salty soup, and the fried things; she didn’t mind the grassy tea or the seaweed; she even tolerated the searing green paste and unnaturally pink pickled ginger. However, she _absolutely_ drew the line at uncooked fish.

 

As they bent their heads over the dessert menu, Peggy observed, “I see you and Tony managed to sort through your difficulties.” One didn’t have to be a trained secret agent to spot the large, square diamond adorning Pepper’s left hand.

 

“Oh—yes.” Pepper gave the ring a little twist. “Yes, we did. Thank you for your advice, by the way. It was very effective.”

 

 “I’m glad. What do you think is in black ice cream?” Peggy inquired, referring to the dessert menu.

 

“I have no idea.”

 

“Hmm. Bit of a dodgy proposition. Have you set a date?”

 

“Yes, and I was wondering, actually,” Pepper continued to fiddle with the ring absently as she spoke, “if you’d like to be my bridesmaid.”

 

Peggy was astonished. “Don’t you have any friends?” she inquired, before she could stop herself.

 

“A few,” said Pepper dryly. “And a younger sister. So I have options. There’s no pressure.”

 

“No, I—I’d be delighted, of course. Thank you. Stop worrying it,” she ordered, putting her hand over both of Pepper’s. “You’ll rub your finger raw.”

 

“I know. I can’t get used to wearing it again. I keep touching it, and people think I’m trying to show it off.”

 

Seized by a rare impulse to do the traditional, womanly thing, Peggy pulled Pepper’s hand towards her across the table and inspected the ring. It was European; platinum band, Asscher cut stone, art deco setting. Stunning—and familiar.

 

“An antique,” she observed, blithely, letting go of Pepper’s fingers and taking a sip of her drink. “How charming. I wouldn’t have thought it of Tony.”

 

Pepper gave her a shrewd look. “It was his mother’s.”

 

“Lovely. How did he ask you?”

 

“The first time, we were at a restaurant. He had the waiter put the ring in a glass of champagne. I wasn’t expecting it, at all—I almost chipped a tooth. This time around, it was a little more low-key.” Pepper blushed very prettily as she admitted, “I did the asking.”

 

Peggy nodded her approval. “You didn’t pop the ring into his after-dinner scotch? Turnabout is fair play.”

 

“I thought about it, but no. You’ve seen it before,” Pepper remarked.

 

“I have.”

 

“Did you…”

 

“It’s never turned up in _my_ drink, if that’s what you’re asking.”

 

“I wondered.”

 

“Howard collected things. Lots of things. Everything. Nowadays, I suppose one might call him a hoarder. He bought this at an estate sale in London,” Peggy recalled, “when we were packing up the SSR office there. I remember it being worth a good deal more than he paid for it at the time. I did rather get the idea that he was testing the waters, when he showed it to me. But he certainly never asked me formally. Never said a word to me about his feelings, in fact, until I’d made up my mind to go—and even then it was, ‘I _think_ I’m in love with you.’ He would never have said it outright, you see, unless I said it first. Always hedging his bets, Howard was.”

 

“Would you have said yes if he’d asked you?”

 

“Oh, I doubt it.”

 

“Now who’s hedging?”

 

Peggy canted her head slightly, acknowledging the observation’s truth. “He might have worn me down, with time. He was clever, and charming, and generous—and terribly handsome, which shouldn’t count for anything, but there you are.”

 

“Yes, I’ve seen pictures.”

 

“Before the war, he would have been exactly my type. And we always had fun together. But marriage wouldn’t have made either of us happy in the long run. We were both far too self-interested. I think there needs to be at least one truly selfless person in a relationship for it to work.”

 

Pepper was looking at her thoughtfully, and Peggy realized that it was a bit tactless of her to be lecturing her newly-engaged friend on the pitfalls of matrimony.

 

“ _You_ needn’t worry,” she hastened to assure her. “Tony’s quite sound. I wouldn’t let you marry him if I thought otherwise.”

 

Pepper smiled. “I know. It isn’t that. I was just thinking that—in a way, you’re—well, you’ll be the closest thing I have to an in-law.”

 

To her horror, Peggy felt herself starting to well up. She covered it with a brusque, “If _you_ start calling me Aunt Peggy, then you can look for another bridesmaid.”

 

“I won’t.” Pepper squeezed her friend’s fingers. “I promise.”

 

They both had the black ice cream for dessert. It was exceptionally good.

 

*

 

That night, Peggy dreamed she was on an elevator. She kept pushing the button for the floor she wanted, producing a gentle _ding!_ each time, but the infernal thing didn’t seem to want to move.

 

The electronic chime became more and more persistent, until finally she broke the surface of consciousness enough to place the source of the sound.

 

“JARVIS?” she whispered—though why she thought it necessary to whisper, she couldn’t say.

 

“ _Good morning, Ms. Carter,_ ” JARVIS whispered back.“ _You asked me to wake you when Captain Rogers arrived. He has just entered the Tower._ ”

 

“Yes, thank you. What time is it?”

 

“ _4:32 a.m._ ”

 

“Thank you,” she repeated, sitting up.

 

There was a chirp of acknowledgement from the AI, and the room gently illuminated. The floor was like ice under her bare feet, but she endured it as far as the bedroom doorway, where she stood and waited.

 

Steve walked slowly into the living room: hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, his body angled as though he were walking headfirst into a storm.

 

He took no notice of Peggy standing in the doorway; he pulled off his shoes, shucked his jacket, and sank down onto the hard, low couch. She saw him settle, sock-feet poking out at one end, and realized that he meant to sleep there.

 

“Come to bed,” she said. Her voice was gravelly with sleep, making the statement sound seductive—not what she’d intended at all.

 

Steve shot into a sitting position, blinking rapidly.

 

“You’ve been visiting him.”

 

It wasn’t a question, but he nodded all the same.

 

“I’ve seen him as well. Only through the glass, though.” She knew it was selfish; she ought to have left him alone, let him come to her when he was ready. But she was tired of this, tired of politely talking around the subject that was on both of their minds. “How is he with you?”

 

“Brutal,” he said, honestly. “He’s… sometimes there. Sometimes not. So either he knows who I am, and he’s pissed off at me for letting this happen to him, or he thinks I’m the enemy, and he’s describing in detail how he’s going to kill me. I never know what to say to him, so I just sit there and listen to it all. I don’t think it’s helping either of us at this point.”

 

“How awful for you. I’m so sorry.”

 

“He hates me.”

 

“He doesn’t, really. Or rather, he wouldn’t, if he were in his right mind.”

 

Steve sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping.

 

“Steve… you aren’t responsible for this.”

 

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice breaking on the last word. He brought his hand up to shield his eyes, his fingers and thumb squeezing at his temples. “I don’t know.”

 

She hovered in the doorway, torn, uncertain. She couldn’t tell if she was doing the right thing by prompting him to talk, when it seemed to be upsetting him even further.

 

“Would you rather be alone?” she asked.

 

Steve shook his head.

 

She rushed to the couch and threw her arms around his shoulders. He hugged her bruisingly, pulling her into his lap and pressing his hot face against her neck. He was holding his breath; the arms that squeezed her were taut and trembling with the effort of holding back.

 

“Let it out,” she told him, kneading the hard muscles of his back, trying to smooth away the tension. “Breathe.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“You mustn’t be. He’s important to you. Of course you’re upset.”

 

“No, I—” He had to push the words out, force himself to exhale. “I thought I could get him to let me go. I didn’t want to hurt him. And then he almost—he would have killed you if—God, Peggy—”

 

Peggy wasn’t sure what to say. She certainly didn’t blame Steve, but she didn’t think he would thank her for denying the plain facts of what had happened.

 

“Darling,” she murmured. “Shh.”

 

He was crying, silently but unmistakably, his enormous frame shuddering.

 

She desperately wanted to tell him it was going to be all right—but she had no idea whether or not it would be. It was entirely possible that Barnes would spend the remainder of his life mired in the depths of his madness, locked away for acts he’d had no control over. And both she and Steve would bear their own scars for a long time to come.

 

And Steve, she knew, was a man who would always try to carry the world on his shoulders. He was a man who would, without hesitation, offer himself up as sacrifice if he felt it was for the greater good. That hadn’t changed, and wouldn’t change. Nor did she want it to, as much as it might pain her.

 

She loved him for it.

 

“Steve,” she said, stroking the back of his neck, “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

 

He began to sob—an awful, hoarse, heart-wrenching sound.

 

She squeezed him as tightly as she could through the worst of it, reminding him that she was there, that he was safe, that it was all right to let go.

 

As he began to wind down, his breathing evening out, she drew back to cup his face in both hands. Tenderly, she kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, his closed eyelids.

 

“There, now. You’re all right, aren’t you?”

 

He nodded blearily, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.

 

She stood, taking him by the hand, and led him to the bedroom. She helped him shed his clothing, down to his shorts and undershirt, then crawled into the centre of the enormous bed and arranged herself amid the nest of covers, lying on her back. He settled against her side: their legs interlocked, his arm curled around her hips, his head nestled in the valley of her breasts.

 

His face was still flushed, his cheek hot through the thin cotton of her t-shirt. He was heavy, but it was pleasant, reassuring. She drew the blankets up around them both, knowing how he liked to be cosseted while he slept.

 

“There,” she cooed, stroking his shoulder with one hand, his temple with the other. “Safe as houses.”

 

“I don’t know what that means,” he murmured, wistful and drowsy.

 

“It doesn’t matter, darling,” she said fondly, her fingers combing through his hair.

 

There was no response at first, and she thought he’d drifted off, but then she heard him say, in the same soft voice, “I like that. When you call me that.”

 

She patted his arm and said, “I remember. Go to sleep.”

 

He murmured something unintelligible into her cleavage, and then his breathing slowed to a deep, peaceful rhythm.

 

She kissed the top of his head, whispering, “I love you, Steve.”

 

She didn’t think he’d heard. After a moment, however, he lifted up on one elbow and said, “Yeah?”

 

She nodded, smiling.

 

He kissed her, soundly, then pulled back to ask, “Say it again?”

 

“Oh, Steve, I _adore_ you,” she declared, making it campy, theatrical. “Madly. Awfully. _Desperately_. I _pine_ for you. I’m wasting away, I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I—”

 

He swatted affectionately at her hip. “Forget I asked.”

 

“I do, though,” asserted Peggy, more genuinely. “I have for a long time. I ought to have told you before now.”

 

“It’s okay.” He ducked his head—but rather than settling again, as she’d expected, he nuzzled at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, spreading warmth like a balm. “I wasn’t saying it just to hear you say it back.”

 

Peggy made an embarrassingly greedy noise. It had been too long; at the lightest brush of his lips on her bare skin, she was suddenly desperate, aching, her thighs trembling at the thought of holding him between them again.

 

“Still nice to hear it,” he told her, warm fingertips skirting deftly along the waistband of her pajama pants before sliding up under her shirt. “Any time you feel like saying it.” Every kiss, every touch, left a trail of fire in its wake.

 

“I thought—oh, _Steve_ —thought you were tired.”

 

She felt him smile. “Never too tired for this.”

 

*

 

Because she was a class of one, there was no formal ceremony or announcement when Peggy graduated. She simply arrived one morning for a training session, opened her locker, and found a set of black-and-navy uniforms hanging inside.

 

The jumpsuit was a perfect fit, as were the soft leather boots and the belt. Peggy slipped the waterproof jacket off its hanger, her fingers brushing over the embossed black patch on the shoulder.

 

“Not bad,” said Natasha, appearing silently behind Peggy, in a way that had long since ceased to be startling.

 

The jacket was comfortable, the cut surprisingly similar to Peggy’s old field uniform. “Yes, it’ll do,” she remarked.

 

Natasha unlocked a polished metal case and offered it ceremoniously to Peggy, who reached in and extracted the black Walther PPK from its nest of carved foam.

 

“Clint said you thought the stainless steel was a little showy.”

 

“Just a tad.” She squeezed the grip of the new pistol with each hand in turn, just as she’d been shown in training, feeling the weapon warm slightly as she did so. As a failsafe, all SHIELD-issue sidearms featured a unique biometric grip, designed to code to the palm-prints of the gun’s owner at first touch. A backup imprint could be installed at the user’s discretion; in the case of field agents, this was usually assigned to a partner.

 

As if reading her thoughts, Natasha observed, “All you need now is a friend to watch your back. And a code name.”

 

“During the war, I was known as Agent 13.” Peggy cradled the weapon in her palm a moment longer before slotting it into the holster at her hip.

 

“That’s fun,” said Natasha, dryly, “but we can probably get a little more creative.”

 

*

  
“ _Spitfire_?” repeated Steve—with an incredulous head shake, as though he thought he might have misheard. “Like the airplane?”

 

“Exactly like that. I quite like it,” Peggy affirmed. “It’s a shame if you don’t. You’ll have to get used to hearing me called by it.”

 

“I like it fine,” he observed placidly. They were seated at opposite ends of the rectangular sofa: Steve, limbs sprawling everywhere as usual, was writing studiously in a notebook, while Peggy, who sat with her legs crossed and her back propped against a remarkably uncomfortable cushion, was attempting in vain to type out an email on her laptop.

 

It was a somewhat convoluted and—out of necessity—mostly untruthful email to Charlotte, wherein she explained that she had been offered a job in the city, far too good of an opportunity to turn down. She hated to lie, but neither could she stand to leave her friends wondering why she’d mysteriously vanished from both the college and the town after only a few months.

 

“I thought you’d use your old code name,” Steve continued, looking slightly forlorn.

 

Peggy poked him with her toe. “You can’t possibly be that nostalgic about a _number_ , surely? Natasha thinks they’re passé.”

 

Steve took her foot in his hand and brought it to rest on his knee. “Wouldn’t want the other kids at school to laugh at you.” Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him tapping the eraser end of his pencil absently against his (divinely full and soft) lower lip. It was distracting, to say the least. “Did she tell you who you’ll be working with?”

 

“Agent Barton, provided he has no objections. I can’t imagine why he would. I’m delightful.”

 

“Spitfire and Hawkeye,” said Steve, without looking up from his book. “It’s got a nice ring to it.”

 

“You don’t sound surprised.”

 

“It’s the same call I’d have made. Makes sense to pair him with someone who wasn’t with SHIELD during the attack. Some people around the office still won’t talk to him.”

 

“That’s absolute nonsense,” she declared. “What happened to him was not his fault.”

 

“He killed a lot of people. His friends, his colleagues.”

 

She glanced at Steve, who challenged her gaze with his own.

 

“I think the devil has quite enough advocates, don’t you?”

 

“I never could put anything past you.”

 

“And yet.”

 

Steve gave her a small smile, then turned his attention back to his writing. Only, she realized, watching him lick his pencil before applying it to the paper, he wasn’t writing.

 

“Is that a new sketchbook?”

 

He nodded. “Picked it up today.”

 

“The other one is evidence, I suppose.”

 

“No. I mean, yeah, technically, but Natasha never turned it in. But I figured, time for a fresh start.”

 

She was curious whether he knew why Barnes had blacked out what she supposed could only be studies of his own face, but found herself rather at a loss when it came to wording the question.

 

Instead she asked, “How is James?”

 

“Making progress.” He suddenly sounded tired—but also relieved, as if he’d been wanting to discuss it all along, but hadn’t wanted to impose. “It’s two steps forward, one step back. He knows who he is, most of the time, but that doesn’t mean he’s happy about it. He’s in isolation right now—had a bit of a setback the other day, tried to choke out his psychiatrist.”

 

“If he has the same one I did, then I can’t say I’m surprised.”

 

Steve put down his book, leaned across the couch, and planted a kiss on her cheek. 

 

“Hmm,” said Peggy, appreciatively. “What’s that for?”

 

“You said it yourself, Spitfire.” He grinned. “You’re delightful.”


	23. Since I Fell For You

The uniformity of SHIELD’s conference rooms verged on the uncanny at times. Peggy entered the room, knowing beyond all doubt that she had never been in it before, but instinct still made her open her bag and feel around it for her booklet of practice exams.

 

Steve seemed to have had a touch of the same déjà vu: he was already seated in the spot where they would have conducted their study sessions. Maria Hill sat at the far end of the table, where Peggy’s doctor would have sat supervising their meeting.

 

Natasha and Barton, additions to the original tableau, moved around the room, setting up anti-listening devices in each corner.

 

Breaking with tradition, Peggy sat opposite Steve instead of beside him. Barton joined her side of the table, making it feel a bit like a job interview—or perhaps an interrogation.

 

Meeting at SHIELD had its risks, but they had few options. This wasn’t the type of discussion one had in a coffee shop or a library; and in light of the objections Pepper had voiced while they were looking for Steve, none of them had felt comfortable meeting at the Tower.

 

But this was not official SHIELD business. Quite the opposite, in fact.

 

“Before you start,” said Hill, “I want to be clear. This operation is taking place without the Council’s knowledge or approval. My only involvement is to ensure plausible deniability. Officially, Cap’s still on administrative leave, Barton’s back on medical leave, and Romanoff is supervising Carter’s wilderness survival training in the Adirondacks. You get caught, the story will be that the four of you went rogue, and you’ll be disciplined accordingly. You run into trouble, there’s no backup coming. Understood?”

 

Nods around the conference table.

 

“And I’m not here.”

 

As if to illustrate her non-presence, Hill retrieved a wedge of the _New York Times_ from her bag, and began ostentatiously filling in the crossword. Peggy thought the use of a pen, rather than a pencil, a particularly nice touch.

 

Natasha stationed herself at Steve’s left, next to one of the room’s two large display screens, queuing up photos and maps as he spoke.

 

He outlined the situation in broad strokes: James Barnes had committed acts of terrorism all over the world, spanning decades. The only thing keeping him from being extradited a hundred times over was the fact that the World Security Council had agreed to let him be remanded to the custody of SHIELD. They weren’t particularly interested in allowing the Winter Soldier his due process, let alone issuing him a pardon.

 

Steve was determined to find evidence that would, at the very least, provide context for his friend’s crimes. If it could be proven that Barnes was forced to do the things he’d done—drugged, tortured, and programmed, as the Black Widows had been—then he could be deemed not responsible. Natasha’s case had set the precedent.

 

However, if it turned out that he’d acted voluntarily, he would almost certainly disappear into the deeper recesses of the Vault. There were high-level containment areas to which only the director and deputy director had access, and the Council was planning to have Barnes moved to one of these cells, effectively burying him.

 

Natasha and Steve both believed that they’d been able to get through to Barnes, individually, if only for brief moments. (He’d seemed to know Peggy too, on some level, though that hadn’t stopped him from running her through.) If they could keep him in a place where he had access to treatment, there was a possibility he could be rehabilitated.

 

“I know that not all of you have a stake in this,” he said, looking at Peggy and Barton each in turn. “It’s a lot to ask. You’ll be risking your careers, and possibly more than that. So I won’t take it personally if you want out.”

 

Barton nudged Peggy. “Did you know we were all supposed to prepare speeches?” he stage-whispered. “Did I miss an email?”

 

“You know…” Steve turned to Natasha, mock-thoughtful. “Do we need _two_ sharpshooters?”

 

“Not really. Carter can fly the jet. It’ll be good practice.”

 

Barton tipped Peggy a broad wink. For all that he liked to play the fool, she’d noticed that he always did it with purpose; the atmosphere in the room was noticeably lighter than it had been a second ago.

 

Peggy took the liberty of speaking for both of them: “Duly noted, Captain. Shall we carry on?”

 

Steve nodded briskly.

 

Their target, he explained, was an abandoned Department X storage depot in Kazakhstan. Barnes claimed he had woken up there a few months ago, alone, with only his disjointed recollections to guide him. He had managed to give an approximate location (Natasha circled an area on the map) and had been able to select the place from a series of photos (Natasha scrolled to an image of a cluster of squat, unadorned industrial buildings). However, they didn’t have access to any aerial surveillance more recent than three years prior to when Barnes said he’d left.

 

“There might be nothing to find at this point. We can’t depend on his recall, or his sense of time passing,” Natasha cautioned. “He could also be sending us into a trap, intentionally or otherwise.”

 

Steve sat slightly straighter in his chair, his hands pressed flat against the table as though holding it down.

 

Peggy longed to reassure him, but it wasn’t the time, or the place. Professionalism and discipline were qualities she knew they both valued highly (with allowances made for rushed farewells on top of moving vehicles, naturally).

 

Steve continued, “Okay, assignments. We’ll be ‘borrowing’ one of the older Quinjets that’s listed as being in the service bay—Clint, that’s you. You’ll drop the three of us, then stay low and keep your ears open.”

 

“Yep.”

 

Natasha tapped the screen on the table to pull up a grainy enlargement of the roof. “From what we can tell, this structure goes into the ground for at least ten floors, which fits with what James told us.” She swiped to zoom in. “Mechanical room.”

 

“If what Bucky tells us is accurate, there’s been some flooding on the lower levels. He said the lights on the main floor were working, which means the power may need to be shut off before we can go in. We’ll need access to the generator or the HVAC.” Steve pointed to Peggy. “You’re our maintenance technician.”

 

Peggy bristled at being given such a soft assignment—but she quickly talked herself down, reasoning that Barton would be missing the action completely.

 

Obviously anticipating her objection, he added, “You two are our eyes above ground once we get inside.”

 

Peggy nodded.

 

As usual, Steve had planned the operation so that he assumed the greatest risk. Once Peggy gave word that it was safe, he would venture beneath the surface, while Natasha stayed on the ground floor until he signaled her to come down. They would gather any intel and equipment they could, and document everything with photos.

 

They reviewed an array of contingency plans: inclement weather, fire, chemical contamination, building collapse, intrusion, capture. It was a comprehensive discussion, enough so that Maria Hill had completed her crossword and moved on to the sports pages by the time it broke up.

 

When Peggy left with Barton, who was insisting that it was the rookie’s privilege to buy drinks for the senior partner, Hill and Steve were chatting about baseball scores. Peggy thought it might have been the first time she’d seen the deputy director smile.

 

That was Steve’s real gift, she reflected. Not the speed, or the strength, or any of the other advantages he’d been given by the serum, but his innate ability to bring out the good in those around him. Steve inspired people to shine: because he respected them, because he trusted in their capacity to do the right thing, and because he set the example by always endeavouring to do the right thing himself.

 

*

 

The next morning, Peggy forced herself to eat a decent breakfast, despite the fact that her stomach was a writhing mass. She’d noticed, during her training, that any use of her enhanced abilities left her feeling quite hollow inside. It certainly explained why Steve was capable, at any time of day and regardless of when his last meal had been, of putting away an absolutely obscene amount of food.

 

She was suiting up when Steve emerged from the bathroom, towel slung low on his hips. “I’ve got something for you,” he said, from the general direction of the wardrobe.

 

Peggy, who had just finished maneuvering into her tight-fitting thermal shirt, didn’t trouble herself to look. “Yes, and it’s quite impressive, darling, but there simply isn’t time.”

 

He chuckled. “Not that.”

 

She turned to see him cradling a small, silver object in the palm of his hand. She stepped closer and was able to make out a tiny model aircraft, polished to a high sheen.

 

“They cast them using metal from decommissioned Spitfires,” said Steve. He flipped the little plane over, so that she could see the model number stamped on the underside of the wings. “I thought of you as soon as I saw it.” He picked up her uniform jacket and carefully affixed the pin to the interior lining of one of the pockets, where it wouldn’t be easily lost or damaged.

 

“It’s lovely, Steve. Thank you.”

 

“It’s tradition to have a good luck piece. Natasha’ll call it superstition if you ask her, but she has a little red hourglass stitched into all of her uniforms. Clint’s is a tattoo, a hawk.” He motioned across his ribcage. “Really nice work, actually.”

 

“What’s yours?”

 

“Same as always.” He rifled in the top drawer of his dresser, producing a battered compass. Sure enough, Peggy recognized it as the one he’d carried throughout the war. He’d had it from his mother, she remembered, when he was a boy; the one reminder of her he’d managed to hang onto, refusing to sell or pawn it even when money was scarce.

 

“I’m surprised you’ve much use for such old-fashioned technology.”

 

“It doesn’t work. Sat in the water too long.”

 

“Then why carry it at all?”

 

Part of her already knew the answer, even before he flipped the catch to show her.

 

The interior of the compass was the worse for wear since she’d last seen it: a crack in the glass obscured the dial. As he turned it towards her, she could see that the needle was fixed in place, the inner works probably rusted solid.

 

The photo pasted on the inside of the case had to be a reproduction—it was far too crisp and clean, and the original newspaper clipping certainly wouldn’t have withstood such prolonged immersion in water.

 

“It still points home,” he said simply.

 

Peggy gave him a quick kiss, remarking, “You’re a sap.”

 

“It’s true. You always did make my needle swing north.”

 

His wicked grin made her flush, her skin prickling all over. Despite her earlier injunction, his lack of clothing suddenly seemed rather convenient. She kissed him again, soundly, tugging his towel free.

 

He was a bit wound up, as he’d often been before a particularly tricky outing, even during the war. As usual, however, she found that he channelled his excess energy quite productively.

 

*

 

The storm had been predicted to miss them entirely, but nothing was ever simple. Peggy, in the co-pilot’s seat, watched patches of blue and white bloom across the radar screen—while Barton, listening to the local weather service on his earpiece, gleefully announced the depth of the snowfall approximately every half hour.

 

Natasha had been able to requisition full winter gear for her and Peggy’s apocryphal camping trip, including a pair of climbing snowshoes each. These made the drop rather fun, truth be told; though not for Steve, who was forced to rely on his boots alone. The snow swallowed him up like sand as they hiked to the compound, but he set his shoulders and cut a path without complaint—not even when Natasha observed that she and Peggy could make better time if Steve sat on his shield and the two women dragged him between them.

 

Peggy very much approved of his latest battle suit: the muted blue-and-silver colour scheme, the freedom of movement it seemed to allow, and of course, the fit (the best aspects of which were, unfortunately, concealed by the waist-high snowdrifts).

 

The compound was on high ground, a windswept hill that had been cleared down to the rock. Had it been operational, it would have been tricky to approach the perimeter fencing without alerting a lookout in one of the guard towers; as it was, the three operatives walked across the still, stony yard without opposition.

 

Access to the roof was a ladder whose lowest rung was well out of Peggy’s reach. She could have scaled the wall, of course, but it was faster for Steve to grasp her by the waist and lift her until she was able to pull herself up. Once she’d gotten a firm hold, Steve—skirting the limits of good behaviour—gave her a quick pat on the backside. When she glanced down at him over her shoulder, he winked at her. He was clearly just as exhilarated to be working together again as she was, and she couldn’t fault him for being in high spirits.

 

Then he and Natasha made for the depot’s main doors, leaving Peggy to pick her way up the ice-coated ladder.

 

“Thank you for the boost, Captain.”

 

She could hear his grin over the comlink. “My pleasure, ma’am.”

 

On the roof, the high winds and the rapid temperature drop had transformed the porous cement and wet snow into a skating rink. The crampons on her snowshoes helped her to gain purchase, but only barely.

 

The wind lashed at her, pelting her with pellets of ice like crushed glass. Even with her face-shield, her visibility was almost nil.

 

“I can’t see a bloody thing up here,” she barked. She kept her feet flat, penguin-stepping towards the door of the mechanical room.

 

There was a burst of static on the line as Barton’s reply came through: “—didn't have snow in London in your day, grandma? Charles Dickens lied to me.”

 

“Piss off,” said Peggy crisply. She put her shoulder to the door, gave a herculean shove, and managed to wrench it open. She stumbled inside, the high wind sucking the door shut in her wake.

 

“Cap, you're gonna let that fly?”

 

“Buddy,” Steve retorted, “I'm climbing down a mile-long elevator shaft, in the dark, breathing concentrated rodent shit. Walk it off.”

 

It was a bit of a struggle to get her face-shield and insulated cowl off while keeping her nose intact, but Peggy managed. Once she could see properly, she got the measure of the console in fairly short order, pleased with herself for having thought to brush up on her Russian. Even though the generator didn’t appear to be functioning, she switched everything off for Steve and Natasha’s safety, and informed them when she’d done so.

 

Barton relayed that the storm was getting worse, his words barely discernible over the crackling interference.

 

A long interval of silence followed, all of them waiting on Steve’s next update. Waiting had never been Peggy’s strong suit, and that certainly hadn’t changed.

 

“I’m at the bottom.” His voice was accompanied by splashing. “It’s a mess down here. Romanoff, you wanna join me for a swim?”

 

“How’s the water?” asked Natasha.

 

“Let me put it this way: I’m glad it’s only as high as my knees.”

 

“Carter, you—” Barton interjected, the remainder of the message dropping.

 

“Again, please.”

 

Inaudible buzzing.

 

“Barton—”

 

There was a loud _crack!_ and a blinding whiteness, accompanied by a searing pain that made Peggy’s eyes water. She cried out, her hands instinctively flying up to protect the back of her head.

 

The second stroke caught her on the knuckles, the impact muffled by her gloves—but she let the momentum carry her forward, crumpling to the ground. She needed a moment to regroup. Her assailant’s next move would make it clear whether he considered Peggy a serious threat, or merely a mild inconvenience.

 

An unceremonious clunk suggested it was the latter. He’d tossed away the metal pipe he’d used to club her, and was proceeding towards the breaker box.

 

Peggy forced herself to lie perfectly still until she’d heard him cross the room, then sprang up, launching herself at his back. He was on the small side, lithe and agile; she caught him up in a nelson hold, slamming his head against the cinderblock wall once, twice. It was less effective than she’d hoped: his opaque face-shield absorbed most of the impact. He pushed off from the wall with his feet, the back of his skull smacking Peggy in the chin, and broke free of the hold.

 

There followed a ferocious exchange of blows—but they were both so heavily protected against the cold weather that the strikes had little impact. They fell to grappling, each trying to bring the other to their knees.

 

Peggy let her opponent drop her, then sprang back and head-butted him, feeling his face-shield crack on impact. He staggered, and she seized her chance and shoved him out the door and onto the slick rooftop.

 

It wasn’t her preferred venue for a fight. The ice and the wind were unpredictable elements, and Peggy had always been at her best in an enclosed space with useful objects and surfaces to hand. But she couldn’t risk the electricals; there was no telling what damage a surge or a short might do.

 

She drew her sidearm. Her attacker tried a roundhouse kick, aiming to disarm her; she dodged and grabbed his heel, yanking up to set him off-balance. As he scrambled on the wind-polished ice, she pointed her pistol. Her opponent was reaching for a weapon too, but Peggy was quicker.

 

She squeezed off two shots, hitting him in the shoulder. He stumbled backwards, heels skidding. He was teetering on the roof’s edge; she planted her foot square in his chest and sent him over.

 

As he fell, his hand shot out and grasped Peggy’s ankle.

 

The world turned end over end as Peggy flew off the edge of the roof and into a yawning blackness. As she landed, her arm hit a hard rock at an awkward angle. She heard the snap before she felt it.

 

When she was able to orient herself, she realized that her opponent had cushioned her fall. The rock was, in actuality, his skull, and she’d landed on it with her full weight. He lay beneath her, unmoving.

 

She stood, keeping her pistol trained on him in case he was playing dead. The only sign of life was a thin trickle of blood in the snow, from the wound in his shoulder.

 

Peggy’s entire body felt jarred by the fall. The back of her head was throbbing, and she was fairly certain she’d chipped a tooth. She swore viciously as she examined her left forearm, which now had a slight extra bend in the middle of it.

 

“Peg?” asked Steve in her ear, concerned.

 

“Broke a nail,” she replied airily. “And I have a chap here who’s had a bit of a tumble off the roof.”

 

Training her flashlight on the figure, she saw that its face-shield had come off, revealing a youthful, feminine countenance.

 

“Actually, not a chap,” she corrected. “But I’d be obliged if one of you could lend a hand. We’re just along the south wall.” Inwardly, she berated herself for having made assumptions about her attacker’s gender. She, of all people!

 

“Roger that,” said Steve.

 

It was Natasha who came to her aid a few minutes later. She examined the girl and confirmed that she was unconscious, before helping Peggy to splint her arm.

 

“She’s here to close the loop on the Winter Soldier.” Natasha removed the operative’s pistols and rifled through her various pockets.

 

Peggy took a closer look at the girl’s face: she was pale, with delicate features, a dash of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her eyelashes and eyebrows were white-blond, as were the wisps of hair escaping from her fitted cowl. With her eyes closed, she had the look of a sleeping child.

 

“I suppose you’re going to tell me now that this slip of a thing is in her eighties?”

 

“Actually, no. She was after my time.” Natasha tucked the last of the girl’s possessions into her own bag. “Yelena Belova. She’s good. Not as good as me, obviously. I would’ve killed you.”

 

Peggy gave a disdainful sniff. “Think highly of yourself, don’t you?”

 

Natasha pointed to a nearby spattering of bright red on the white snow. “Hey, you remembered to take the safety off this time. Good for you.”

 

Peggy shrugged, tucking her good hand into her jacket pocket for warmth. Her fingers brushed cold, smooth metal—the Spitfire pin. Her good luck. It had certainly worked a charm.

 

“It’s kind of you to try to get my back up so I’ll heal faster,” she told Natasha, “but I’m far too accustomed to your rudeness to take any notice.”

 

Natasha grinned.

 

Despite her split lip and her splitting headache, Peggy grinned back.

 

*

 

They couldn’t take the girl back with them, obviously. However, none of them were keen on the idea of leaving her to die in the cold, in spite of the fact that she would have done the same to any of them without turning a hair.

 

In the end, Steve carried her into the compound, where she would be shielded from the storm. Thanks to her body armour, only one of Peggy’s bullets had done her any damage; it was the fall, and Peggy landing on her head, that had knocked her out. Natasha was confident that she’d come around in time to tend to her own injuries.

 

“We ought to tag her,” Peggy suggested.

 

“Waste of time,” said Natasha. “She’ll change clothes as soon as she can.”

 

“Doesn’t it rather defeat the purpose of doing this secretly, if we leave a trail of witnesses?” Peggy was annoyed—not with Natasha’s plan, but with the entire situation. Instinct and training alike compelled her not to leave loose ends, but they were doing exactly that.

 

Natasha shook her head. “She won’t tell her handlers what really happened. She’ll find what we found, torch everything, and report back that James escaped before she got here.”

 

“How can you be certain?”

 

“Because I used to be her,” said Natasha, quietly.

 

Steve had dug up a blanket from somewhere, and was draping it over Belova. Peggy watched him, thinking how strange it all was: how easily he might have found himself in Barnes’s place, or she in Natasha’s.

 

How would it seem to the girl when she woke? Would she believe that Peggy had purposely spared her? Mistake their practicality for kindness? Would it upset her, anger her, disrupt her worldview? Or would she merely file it away as an anomaly and carry on?

 

“I’m tagging her,” Peggy announced. “We might learn something useful. And if she’s expecting it, I’d hate to disappoint.”

 

Natasha shrugged, noncommittal, but helped Peggy apply the tracking fluid.

 

*

 

Natasha co-piloted on the trip back, while Steve and Peggy conducted a thorough inventory of the items they’d taken from the Department X operative. There were numerous weapons, explosives, wiring, and detonators, as well as syringes and ampoules. She’d obviously expected to be disposing of people as well as property, and she’d been as prepared for every contingency as they were.

 

“She was here for Bucky,” Steve theorized.

 

“That was Natasha’s idea, too. What did you find down there?”

 

“Files, equipment. Couple of boxes of old computer disks. There should be equipment back at SHIELD that can tell us what’s on ‘em.”

 

“Any evidence of what Barnes told you?”

 

Steve nodded. “It looks pretty much like he described. Conditioning, physical punishment… and in between, they kept him in cryo. Then there’s a regime change. The KGB decides he’s not worth the effort to keep programming, but they don’t want to get rid of him entirely, so—” He made a broad sweeping motion.

 

“They shelved him,” she concluded.

 

“Far as we could make out, a circuit board got shorted out in the flood, and the cryo chambers cycled down. The rest of the damage was just… him.”

 

Peggy recalled her own awakening from cryo: waves of pain, distorted perception, and sheer, overpowering rage. She’d struggled to move, to speak, even to breathe—and that was with doctors and physical therapists on hand to guide her recovery.

 

What might she have done if she’d awakened alone, in an unguarded warehouse?

 

“You were right about him.”

 

Steve shrugged, hands folded in his lap. “Yeah, well.” He sounded exhausted. “That and a nickel’ll get you a cup of coffee.”

 

“I’d very much like to know where.” Peggy softened the retort by reaching over and covering both of his hands with her uninjured one.

 

He narrowed his eyes at the makeshift splint she and Natasha had applied to her arm. “Broke a nail, huh?”

 

She gave a dismissive head-toss. “Hardly worth mentioning.”

 

“Peggy.”

 

“Steve.”

 

His frown deepened.

 

“I asked for help when it was needed,” she pointed out.

 

“Yeah, you did.”

 

She slid closer to him on the narrow bench. Despite the relative lack of privacy, she didn’t think it was _too_ unprofessional; they certainly hadn’t made any secret of the fact that they were together, and it wasn’t as though this was an official operation.

 

He shifted, displacing her just long enough to settle an arm around her shoulders. It would have been a much nicer gesture, had the movement not been accompanied by a waft of dank floodwater, with top-notes of rat dropping.

 

“You smell absolutely vile.”

 

Steve gave her a squeeze. “Glad you’re okay, too.”

 

*

 

Peggy was able to get her arm looked after at the SHIELD hospital, citing a fall while rock-climbing as the source of her injury. The on-call doctor also examined the back of her head, confirming that it was only bruised.

 

To preserve their cover stories, Natasha accompanied her to the hospital and then back to the Tower, where Steve was waiting.

 

In contrast to the furnishings, the shower in their suite was quite modern, with fantastic water pressure and room enough for two people. Despite having already showered, Steve insisted on getting in with her; it was nice to have him there, from a purely practical perspective, since Peggy needed to keep her freshly-bandaged arm dry, making washing an especially tricky task.

 

It also allowed him to take inventory of her various bumps and bruises, reassuring himself that she hadn’t sustained any other serious injuries. The whole process left her feeling well cared for, but also rather tired.

 

Scrubbed clean at last, they collapsed on the couch. Steve put on a silly musical that purported to be about the early days of talking pictures; he’d obviously seen it before, as he whistled along to every effervescent tune.

 

“I don’t know how anyone takes you seriously,” Peggy murmured, letting him gather her into his side. Through his thin t-shirt, his body was warm, and smelled considerably nicer now that he’d bathed, twice.

 

Some time later, drifting between sleep and wakefulness, she noticed that they’d changed positions: Steve was lying on his back, and she appeared to be draped over his chest. His fingers were doing fantastic work massaging the crown of her head. The bruising there had receded entirely, which was a good sign.

 

The film was still rolling on, jaunty instrumentals in full swing. Peggy could hear tap dancing, but she couldn’t be bothered to open her eyes all the way.

 

“Good morning, good morning…” he sang softly, in time with the film’s protagonists. “It’s great to stay up late…”

 

“You can’t possibly be comfortable,” she observed.

 

“I’m all right. Maybe move your knee?”

 

The aforementioned knee was jammed into Steve’s groin, as was Peggy’s unfortunate habit whenever she slept on top of him. She shifted and stretched out her legs, feeling stiff and sore all over. Her mouth was cottony and sour. Her arm itched like blazes.

 

“Let’s go to bed.”

 

“You go ahead. I want to watch the rest of this.”

 

“From the sound of it, you’ve seen it a dozen times over.” She rolled onto her side, trying to get comfortable again, irrationally frustrated with Steve for not being the same size or density as a mattress.

 

“Because I like it,” said Steve, equably. “Which is why I want to see it again. Funny how that—hey, watch the elbows.”

 

Peggy’s shoulder was now tightly wedged in Steve’s armpit, with her back against the back of the couch—a position that was more comfortable than one might expect. She adjusted the angle of her hips, and threw one leg across both of his.

 

“All good now?”

 

She laid her head against his shoulder. “Mm-hmm.”

 

“We ought to think about getting a bigger couch.”

 

“You don’t live here,” she reminded him.

 

Steve said nothing.

 

“It would be nice to have something softer,” she conceded. “Not quite so many square edges.”

 

“I like curves,” said Steve, and punctuated this statement by tapping her bottom with the flat of his hand, keeping time with the music.

 

“I had noticed.” She continued, “I’d like some plants.”

 

“Plants?”

 

“Yes. Houseplants. Surely you’ve seen them? In normal people’s homes?”

 

“Uh huh.”

 

“If I’m going to live with you, properly,” she clarified, “I insist on plants. I won’t make you look after them, don’t worry.”

 

“I don’t mind watering—”

 

“I’m being polite, Steve. I don’t want you touching my plants.”

 

He squeezed her backside, cheekily.

 

“Very droll,” she said, and closed her eyes again.

 

*

 

Fortunately, Peggy’s arm healed in good time for Tony and Pepper’s wedding rehearsal.

 

They were a small party: the soon-to-be bride and groom, and one attendant each. Rhodey, Tony’s best man, was effortlessly charming, and he and Peggy filled the long periods of standing about with amiable conversation. She wasn’t at all surprised to learn that his work with the Air Force had a public relations component to it.

 

Pepper had also invited Steve to the dinner afterwards, as a courtesy. Tony was in fine form when they arrived at the restaurant to find him already waiting at the table.

 

“It might be a late night, big guy. It’s okay if you need to cut out early, get home in time for Matlock.”

 

Steve, holding out Peggy’s chair, merely said, “Good to know, thanks.”

 

At this point in her association with Tony, Peggy knew better than to ask what a ‘matlock’ was. She thanked Steve and sat down regally, knowing perfectly well that his sudden attack of courtesy was just to show Tony up.

 

“No, really, I wish I’d known you were coming,” Tony persisted. “We could’ve gone somewhere with a seniors’ menu.”

 

“It’s pretty rich that _I’m_ the old man in this scenario. I’m, what, ten years younger than you?”

 

Rhodey snorted quietly into his water glass.

 

“Okay, number one, grandpa, the fact that you just said ‘pretty rich,’ like, do I even need to continue? And number two, that. Right there.” Tony pointed emphatically at Steve’s chest.

 

Steve glanced down at himself. “What?”

 

“That is the textbook definition of ‘old man sweater.’”

 

Steve was wearing a smart navy blue cardigan over his customary collared shirt. Peggy thought it suited him down to the ground—though her own style preferences were, admittedly, still somewhat unconventional.

 

He gave a complacent shrug of his broad shoulders, accustomed to Tony’s relentless needling.

 

“Did that just happen?” Rhodey wanted to know. “Did I just watch _you_ drag _Steve_ for his fashion sense? Because you wore Captain America pajamas until you got too big to find them in your size.”

 

“That,” said Tony, “is a heinous lie.”

 

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure they make ‘em in his size,” said Steve, the eternal pot-stirrer.

 

“For your information, Tony,” Pepper interjected, “this sweater is Ralph Lauren. The fall collection.” She patted Steve’s sleeve.

 

“Stop trying to impress everyone with your stupid _sweater_ , Rogers,” Tony groused—even though he’d been the one to bring it up in the first place.

 

“You’re one to talk,” Peggy told him. “After all, you’ve paid _me_ a lot of attention. You visited me in hospital, let me go shopping on your credit card, brought me roses, took me out to lunch... what am I supposed to think, after all of that?” She fixed him with a beseeching look and pleaded, “Tell me honestly, Tony. Is it _really_ over between us?”

 

“Ugh,” said Tony, far louder than was necessary. “You dated my dad. That’s—” There was a muffled thump that Peggy was fairly certain was Pepper kicking him under the table.

 

Rhodey suddenly became fascinated with his menu. Steve’s eyebrows rose slightly, but he made no comment.

 

Pepper was quick with a redirect: “Tony’s just jealous because Steve let me take him clothes shopping.”

 

Peggy turned to Steve, charmed. “Did you really?”

 

He nodded, looking a touch self-conscious. “After I saw your new outfits, I asked Pepper if she’d mind going with me.”

 

Peggy gave his arm an affectionate squeeze.

 

“He’s such a clothes-horse,” Pepper declared. “It’s like having my very own life-sized Ken doll.”

 

Tony cleared his throat forcefully. The rest of the table collectively ignored him.

 

“Well,” said Peggy airily, “I absolutely approve. Dress him all you like.” She leaned across Steve and added, in a stage whisper, “Just between us girls, I’d much rather do the opposite.”

 

Pepper gave a surprised laugh. Peggy glanced at Steve; he had his eyes lowered modestly, but she could tell by the way his cheeks twitched that he was holding back a grin.

 

“Inappropriate,” said Tony.

 

Earnestly, Steve asked, “What, no high-five?”

 

*

 

Steve was not the type to hold a grudge. However, he was very much the type to file away information for later discussion, which was why Peggy wasn’t surprised when he inquired about Tony’s comment later that night.

 

“I think ‘dated’ is overstating the case.” Peggy shrugged out of her dress, and slipped it onto a hanger to avoid it getting wrinkled. “Tony has a gift for hyperbole.”

 

She stepped into the bathroom, where she had to stand on her toes and peer into the mirror attached to the medicine cabinet to remove her makeup properly. She reflected, not for the first time, that the suite had very obviously been designed by one man for another. However, the bathroom did have the advantage of allowing her to perform her evening routine in blessed privacy.

 

Steve had spent most of his life in some form of communal habitat, including a tour bus populated by chorus girls. Peggy didn’t think he’d be especially shocked at the sight of her smoothing on night cream, as she was doing now, or setting and wrapping her hair, as she sometimes did. She was, nonetheless, determined to preserve _some_ measure of her feminine allure in the midst of so much casual intimacy.

 

When she emerged, Steve was seated on the bed, undressed to his shorts, in the process of taking off his socks. Shoulders hunched, he peeled the right sock off with the toes of his left foot, then repeated the motion in reverse. It was one of those movements that, even after all this time, he still performed with the same awkwardness his smaller self would have—possibly because they were actions born of habit, ingrained in his muscle memory.

 

Watching him, Peggy suddenly felt very protective. And, frankly, rather amorous.

 

Then he persisted with, “So what would be… stating the case, about Howard?” Which killed the mood for Peggy fairly effectively, since it was obvious he wasn’t about to let the matter drop.

 

“I _dated_ Howard in the same sense that you _dated_ Natasha. I do hope those are going in the laundry basket,” she added.

 

Steve dutifully scooped up the discarded socks and tossed them across the room into the hamper, one by one.

 

Peggy could feel his watchful eye on her as she moved about briskly, gathering and laying out her clothes for the morning.

 

“You’re not jealous, surely?” she prompted.

 

No reply.

 

“Steve, _honestly_. Even now?”

 

“It’s not that I disapprove—”

 

“Oh!” She wheeled about, hands on hips. “How generous of you!”

 

Steve, who disliked being interrupted when he was serious about something, stopped talking and made a displeased sort of pout.

 

“Go on, then.”

 

“I understand that you—I mean, if it had to be anyone, I guess Howard…” His shoulders tightened, as they did when he was forcing himself to speak an uncomfortable truth. “I’m just not crazy about the idea of you and _anyone_ , that’s all. I know it makes no sense, and I’m sorry for being a jerk about it. But there it is.”

 

“Now you know how I’ve felt all this time.”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“Natasha!” She smacked his shoulder—a bit harder than she meant to, but he could certainly stand up to it. “ _You_ and _Natasha_!”

 

“But that was only—”

 

“I don’t _care_! It’s nothing against Natasha, and I believe her when she tells me it wasn’t anything serious. But—you’re _mine_ , Steve.” She said the word with a vehemence that surprised her. But there it was: every ounce of petty possessiveness, her secret shame dragged out into the light. “It makes me livid to think of you with another woman.”

 

Steve gazed up at her, delighted. If he’d been a dog, his tail would have wagged.

 

“Oh, give it a rest,” she said, feigning irritation to cover her embarrassment.

 

He stood up to kiss her: slow and sweet, full of promise. The kind of kiss two people share when they have an endless supply of kisses to hand, ripe and ready to be plucked like fruit at their leisure.

 

“I _am_ yours.” He stroked along her jawline, making her shiver. “All yours. _Only_ yours.”

 

She gave his kiss back to him, tenfold, storming into it the way she would a brawl—shoving him back onto the bed, launching herself after him. Forceful, but tender too, trusting in him to catch her.

 

“Prove it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inspiration for Peggy's Spitfire pin: http://www.poppyshop.org.uk/spitfire-p7350-lapel-pin.html
> 
> THIS IS NOT THE END! there's one more chapter still to come that will wrap things up for good. Stay tuned! When it's the end, trust me, you'll know. :)


	24. Beyond the Sea - Redux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note on things wrapping up here: I had intended to include some scenes explaining a little more about what eventually happens with Bucky. However, that could be a story on its own, and telling it from Peggy's point of view is a particular challenge, since many of the events that unfold take place when she isn't there. It was getting a little tiresome to find creative ways to relay the information through Peggy, so I will probably rework that, and post it separately. ( **Edit:** I've turned that material into a short piece, [Open Season on Broken Hearts](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6012898).)
> 
> "Flames We Never Lit" is Peggy's journey, and I felt that the last chapter should belong to her entirely. 
> 
> And so it does.

Pepper's team of stylists arrived promptly at 6 a.m., staging a makeshift beauty parlour in the penthouse kitchen. Peggy was already there, in her dressing gown, and on her second cup of tea; she would take her turn in the chair first, since it was the bride's privilege to sleep in on her special day.

 

Peggy had been under the illusion that she was, if not a legendary beauty, at least tolerable to look at. This myth was quickly dispelled by the stylists—who actually had the cheek to admonish her for washing her hair too frequently, and cleaning her face with soap and water.

 

After a lot of clucking over her split ends and the dry skin under her eyes, they all set to work on the apparently dubious prospect of transforming Peggy into something presentable. This, as it turned out, required a gratuitous amount of hair-pulling and eye-poking, as well as a sort of chemical debriding of her face.

 

Once Peggy was thoroughly renovated and painted over, including a heavy coat of sealant to keep everything in place until the event, she went to fetch the bride-to-be.

 

In keeping with tradition, Tony had spent his last night of bachelorhood with his best man, while Peggy had stayed over with Pepper. The latter had been characteristically well-organized, and had sensibly gotten all her nervous fretting out of the way the night before. Now, she woke easily, gliding through her morning routine with a devastating self-composure.

 

After seeing to it that Pepper had a cup of tea and something to eat, Peggy helped her into the dress. It was simpler to assemble than it looked from the outside; they’d also had a bit of a practice run at it before going to bed, in order to allay Pepper’s concerns about the timeline.

 

They ensured she had the necessary elements—old, new, borrowed and blue—stashed about her person; Pepper politely declined the traditional sixpence in her shoe, which was just as well since neither of them had a sixpence to hand, though JARVIS helpfully offered to provide the exchange rate.

 

Once everything was buttoned and zipped (and, in at least one instance, taped), Peggy took Pepper firmly by the shoulders and turned her to face the full-length mirror.

 

Pepper often wore white for work, so it wasn’t surprising that she’d selected a soft rose gold for her gown: a delicate swath of organza, off the shoulder, each crease origami-crisp. The blush-tone complimented the copper of Pepper’s hair and brought out the warmth in her fair skin, investing her with the requisite bridal glow—supplemented, of course, by her radiant smile.

 

“Oh!” gasped Pepper, her hand fluttering over her heart.

 

Peggy grinned at her in the mirror, and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “You look fantastic.”

 

“This is actually happening,” she said faintly. “I’m really getting married.”

 

“The evidence does point in that direction,” Peggy deadpanned. “But you know, if you aren’t quite sure, it’s not too late to plan an escape. We can swap dresses, and I’ll put on a ginger wig and a veil. It would be a sacrifice, though I imagine the money would be a small comfort.”

 

Pepper turned and hugged Peggy fiercely. “I wouldn’t want to put you through that,” she said, with a tearful laugh. “I guess I’ll go through with it.”

 

*

 

Leaving Pepper to be expertly worked over, Peggy retreated to her suite to change her own clothes.

 

First, she maneuvered herself into the appropriate undergarments, including a garter belt and—wonder of wonders!—a proper pair of silk stockings, all specially made to measure by the shop Pepper had recommended. Thus suitably armoured, she applied her signature eau de toilette in all the usual places: the pulse points of her wrists, the backs of her knees, her cleavage.

 

Next, she eased the red dress over her head, taking extra care not to displace her hair or smudge her face. It was strangely apropos: the first dress Pepper had helped her choose would be the one she wore to celebrate Pepper’s own wedding.

 

She turned and admired her silhouette in the bedroom mirror, feeling rather luxurious. As much as she enjoyed the comfort and convenience of ladies’ fashions in the new century, she had missed the pleasures of dressing up properly.

 

She had to admit that the stylists, as pitiless as they’d been, had done an impressive job of work: they’d contrived to wrangle her unruly mop into an elegant chignon, with a few glossy curls left artfully undone to frame her face. Her makeup was similarly well-executed: glowing cheeks, immaculate brow lines, and lipstick that perfectly matched her dress and nails.

 

She looked, quite frankly, magnificent.

 

Her escort, meanwhile, had not stirred the entire time she was dressing. He was still unconscious, face down, cradled in the tender embrace of at least a half-dozen pillows.

 

She perched on the edge of the bed and touched his shoulder lightly. “Darling.”

 

Steve made a noise that was either a snore or a muffled grunt, then lifted up on one elbow, blinking at her blearily.She smoothed his hair away from his forehead and caressed his cheek, and was rewarded with a sleepy smile.

 

“Would you mind doing my zip?”

 

“No problem.” The mattress dipped as he rolled onto his side. “You look... wow.”

 

She turned, presenting her back. “Thank you. There’s also a little hook at the top, if you can manage it.”

 

She felt a warm hand on her hip, holding the fabric against her skin as he tugged on the zipper. The truth was, she could have reached it in a pinch, or asked Pepper or one of the stylists for assistance; it was pure indulgence, all of this touching. Fortunately, Steve didn’t seem to mind.

 

“All set.”

 

She peeked over her shoulder, and saw that he’d lowered the zipper all the way down instead of raising it. “Not quite,” she said dryly.

 

His unshaven cheek prickled against her bare shoulder blade. “I like this better,” he said, completely unrepentant.

 

“I’ve no time for your nonsense,” she scolded. “You need to think about getting up.”

 

“Oh, I’m definitely up.” His hand was inside the dress now, his fingers lightly stroking the lace at her hip. “You can check for yourself, if you want.”

 

“You’re _awful_ ,” she moaned, her eyes drifting closed. “You’ll ruin my hair.”

 

He shifted, and she felt the sweet, soft brush of his lips on the back of her neck. “You don’t need to lie down,” he whispered, and _oh_ , she could have thrown him on the bed and ridden him right then.

 

“You’ll ruin my makeup as well.” There was a slight tremor in her voice, but her resolve was firm. “And if you tell me I don’t need to break a sweat, I shall be _very_ disappointed in you.”

 

She felt him smile against her neck, then heard the zipper closing.

 

“You can take it off me tonight,” she promised, “as long as you’re gentle. With the dress.”

 

“Deal.”

 

*

 

The venue was a grand courtyard, the heart of what had once been a seminary: a manicured patch of green, surrounded on all sides by elaborate blind arcading and long vertical windows. An aisle of red carpeting—the only adornment not supplied by the setting itself—led to the steps of the cathedral, the tapered arch of the main doorway serving as the altar.

 

For the ceremony, Pepper had whittled the guest list down to only fifty—approximately four hundred fewer than Tony had intended to invite. Her family was there, including the sister she’d mentioned, and her friends, who all seemed to know each other at least superficially. Tony’s invitees consisted mostly of his fellow Avengers and their dates, and a few Stark employees, as well as a motley assortment of distant Stark relatives.

 

The pageant went off exactly as rehearsed. Peggy had to admit that her friend looked positively luminous, gliding down the aisle as though it were a role she’d been born to play. Tony, for his part, looked handsome, if uncharacteristically grave. He had a slightly puzzled air, as though he were trying to work out how exactly he was going to pull this off. Peggy hoped he wasn’t about to cause a scene.

 

Back home, among her circle at least, getting married was simply something one did, by and large, when one had found a mostly unobjectionable man. Just another stepping-stone in the most acceptable, ordinary path of life, cemented in neatly between school and children. Occasionally, one might have a bit of a go at working; but if a girl was deemed attractive, employment was generally assumed to be a transitory state, rather like adolescence.

 

One of the most satisfying things about living in the 21st century was that this idea of marriage as obligation had largely fallen by the wayside. It was no longer a case of contracting with a man you thought you could stand to live with, to keep his house and bear his children in exchange for his protection and financial support. Two people in love, of any gender, could make whatever alliance best suited them.

 

For the first time, it occurred to Peggy to wonder what Steve thought about modern marriage, or if he thought of it at all.

 

She cut a quick glance at him—but if she’d been hoping for a glimpse into his innermost being, she was doomed to disappointment; he was fiddling with the settings on his camera, his brow creased in concentration.

 

The officiant began the ceremony. When they got to the exchange of vows, Peggy attended with great interest; Tony and Pepper had chosen to write their own, a popular custom in the new century. She’d never heard wedding vows that weren’t the standard Church of England bombast, and Tony, ever the showman, had insisted they not include them as part of the rehearsal.

 

“Marrying you,” Tony began, “is a privilege. One I’ll try like hell to be worthy of every day. I get to laugh with you, and cry with you, build with you, and live with you. It’s my honour to be the person who gets—” here his voice broke slightly—“who gets to love you, Pepper. And I will, always. I promise.”

 

Pepper took a moment to compose herself before speaking her part.

 

“I choose you, Tony, in friendship and in love. We will share our good times and our misfortunes, our successes and our challenges. I will love you, and respect you, and take care of you, always. I promise.”

 

Peggy found herself surprisingly touched by her friends’ straightforward and personal declarations of love. She glanced over at Steve again; this time, his eyes met hers, and he smiled, and she found herself smiling back. It was exactly the kind of absurdly sentimental moment that would have made her cringe if she’d seen it in a novel or a film; however, she supposed allowances could be made, in honour of the day.

 

The rest seemed to happen quickly: the bride and groom exchanged rings, the officiant said a few closing words, and then the deed was done and Tony was kissing Pepper, his hands in places that were mildly unsuitable for a public setting.

 

The officiant reminded the wedding party that the registry still needed to be signed—adding, with a pointed dry cough, that it wasn’t _quite_ time to start the honeymoon just yet.

 

*

 

Despite every precaution having been taken and every nondisclosure agreement signed, someone had contrived to alert the press; a phalanx of photographers had formed outside the public entrance to Stark Tower by the time they returned. Fortunately, all of the guests had been provided transportation from the wedding venue, in vehicles routed through Tony’s private garage.

 

The ballroom, on one of the Tower’s upper levels, was normally used for Stark Industries functions. It was elegantly lit and tastefully decorated, though Peggy would have expected no less.

 

Tony and Pepper had elected to dispense with the customary formal dinner and speeches, opting instead to let the guests sit where they chose and be served at the catering station as they pleased. Peggy wound up sitting with Steve, Thor, and Thor’s date, whose name Peggy did not have the opportunity to learn.

 

While not exactly an energetic conversationalist, the Asgardian was generally pleasant, and certainly decorative. His companion struck Peggy as somewhat excitable, and talked an awful lot of theoretical physics at both Peggy and Steve—who could only nod politely, as though they had the faintest grasp of what she was saying. However, once Steve managed, in his understated way, to steer the discussion towards a somewhat more pedestrian topic, the four of them had a smashing time together.

 

Once the tables were cleared out of the way, Peggy’s first dance was with the best man. Rhodey gleefully confided that he’d contrived to pack the getaway car with balloons full of shaving cream.

 

“What on earth for?”

 

“He won’t be able to get them out without popping them. It’s a prank,” he added, somewhat redundantly. “It’s kind of my job.”

 

“Yes, I see. He has at least half a dozen cars here, though. Couldn’t he just take one of the others?”

 

Rhodey flashed a charming smile and said, “I had a little help from Tony’s driver. All the other cars are in a top secret location.”

 

“Hm. Well played.”

 

As the next song began, Peggy found herself being swept back out onto the dance floor, this time in the arms of the groom himself.

 

He was an excellent dancer: smooth in his movements, decisive in his leading, yet open to suggestion from his counterpart. She couldn’t help but be reminded of Howard: would they have danced, she wondered, on his wedding day? Would they still have been friends by then? Perhaps she’d have been there to drink champagne, and kiss his young bride on both cheeks for luck. Or perhaps he’d have gone off to California alone, and she would have only learned about his marriage while reading the society pages.

 

Impossible to know.

 

Peggy had never seen Tony quite so elated. For as long as she’d known him, the few times she’d seen him on the verge of something like happiness, there had been a manic sort of desperation to it—as though he couldn’t possibly hope to sustain the feeling for long.

 

Just now, though, he seemed quite steady. Convinced, perhaps, that he’d finally got hold of something that wasn’t going to slip away.

 

“Well done, you,” she declared, patting his arm.

 

He beamed.

 

“I knew you had to have at least a modicum of good sense, in amidst all of those legendary brains of yours. Even if you’ve never shown the slightest inclination to use it.”

 

“Ouch.”

 

“I’m glad for you both,” she told him sincerely. “I think you deserve every happiness.”

 

“What about you?”

 

He nodded towards the edge of the dance floor, and Steve, who was chatting amiably with Rhodey. Both men cut rather dashing figures in their formal wear—though to Peggy there was, naturally, a clear front runner.

 

Tony was sporting a trickster grin. “Want me to make sure you catch the bouquet? I have an in, I used to date the bride.”

 

“Bite your tongue. You haven’t been married long enough to start pressuring your friends into it,” she admonished. “We haven’t even tried living together properly. Yet.”

 

Tony’s eyebrows climbed. “Scandalous.”

 

“Oh, hardly.” She gave a dismissive wave. “It was something people occasionally did, you know, back then.”

 

“Wait, you _are_ moving in with Steve? Seriously? Ugh. Have you seen his apartment yet? Is it entirely beige? Tell me you didn’t sign any paperwork.”

 

“I can’t live with you forever. And I haven’t got much of a rental history to speak of, so it’s practical.”

 

“I think you might be having a mid-life crisis, Aunt Peggy.”

 

“Bit late for that, isn’t it? At ninety-three?”

 

“Yeah, maybe. Definitely too old to be getting into knife fights.” He grimaced, looking at the ceiling rather than meeting her gaze. “You scared the bejesus out of—Pepper.”

 

Peggy tightened her arms around Tony’s shoulders, pulling him into a hug. “I’m sorry I frightened her,” she said softly.

 

Tony squeezed her in return.

 

The music changed, one song fading gently into the next. Peggy recognized the brassy, upbeat tune that she and Steve had danced to when he visited her at school.

 

_Somewhere beyond the sea_  
_She's there watching for me_

 

She remembered with fond incredulity how tentative they had both been, then—how full of hope and longing, how anxious that reality wouldn’t measure up to the dream they'd once shared.

_If I could fly like birds on high_  
_Then straight to her arms_  
_I'd go sailing_

 

Tony nodded at something just over Peggy's shoulder. Peggy glanced back to see Steve returning the nod, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

 

“What are you two playing at?” she demanded.

 

Tony just smiled, relaxed his hold on her waist and said, “I think you're booked for this one.”

 

_It's far beyond the stars  
It's near beyond the moon _

 

Sure enough, Steve appeared at Tony’s elbow and proceeded to cut in smoothly, with a chipper, “Well, what do you know, it's our song.”

 

“Sap,” said Peggy affectionately, sliding her hand along his shoulder to rest at the back of his neck.

 

_I know beyond a doubt  
My heart will lead me there soon_

 

He gave an unrepentant shrug. “Can't help it. You’re killing me in that dress. But—”

 

“But what a way to go?”

 

“Hey. Quit stealing my lines.”

 

“One can hardly call it stealing,” she retorted. “Your lines are so old they fall into the realm of public domain.”

 

He snapped his arm out, a fast spin, then pulled her in closer.

 

_We'll meet beyond the shore  
We'll kiss just as before_

 

“Did you ask for this song?”

 

Steve couldn’t hide his grin. “I owed you at least one dance that wasn’t in your living room.” His palm warmed the small of her back.

 

_Happy we'll be beyond the sea  
And never again I'll go sailing…_

 

It might have been the music, or the champagne, or the reason for the day, or Steve looking at her as though she’d hung the moon. Whatever it was, something loosened Peggy’s tongue, causing her to declare, “I do love you so terribly, darling.”

 

And Steve—who, as a rule, preferred his displays of affection private—swept her up, in full view of the entire room, and kissed her breathless.

 

It was, all in all, quite romantic.

 

*

 

The party finally broke up close to dawn. The newlyweds had long since departed for the airfield (in a taxi, much to Tony’s chagrin), destined for a lavish spa hotel on the Grand Canal in Venice. Peggy reflected that Pepper’s constitution must be stronger than hers, if she still had a taste for being scoured and prodded after the morning they’d had.

 

Peggy insisted that Steve take her out to breakfast. In her wild youth, it had been one of her favourite parts of a night of dancing: the divine lassitude that came after the meal, and the deep satisfaction of knowing that one could sleep the day away.

 

On the sidewalk, they turned heads: even having been up all night, they still made a striking pair in their finery. Peggy half-expected more photographers, but they appeared to have dispersed now that the happy couple had fled the scene.

 

They went to an all-night diner, a particular favourite of Steve’s, where they feasted on pancakes, fruit, toast, hashbrowns, and an improbable amount of bacon. Steve drank his usual gallon of black coffee, since it never affected his sleep; Peggy had chamomile tea.

 

Both of them took their shoes off under the table, and there was a fair amount of surreptitious foot-flirting; in public view, however, they were very polite and well-bred, and not the least bit in love.

 

Peggy had just finished telling an amusing story about her SHIELD training, the climax of which involved her hiding in an uncomfortably warm dumpster full of gently rotting produce to throw Natasha off her trail. Steve, instead of laughing, was staring into the middle distance, at nothing in particular.

 

She waited.

 

Finally, he said, “So this is it.”

 

“What is what?”

 

“This. Life. After the war.”

 

She laid her hand lightly on his. “Did you not feel it had started until now?”

 

“I kept feeling like the fight was still going on, somewhere. And I needed to get back.”

 

It made sense; Steve hadn’t been there for the curtain call, the striking of the sets, the gradual return back to a quiet civilian existence. He’d simply woken up, to be told that the only life he knew was over. It made sense that it might take some time to sink in.

 

“Well, it took some doing,” said Peggy, with exaggerated nonchalance, “but I did manage to win it without you.”

 

“You sure know how to make a guy feel needed,” he said dryly.

 

“Oh, I still need you occasionally,” she replied, and ran her foot lightly up the inside of his leg. “For one thing, I’ll need you to help me out of this dress, as you promised you would. And after that, I suppose I might find another use for you.”

 

He squeezed her fingers. “I love you.”

 

“Of course you do, darling,” she replied, squeezing back.

 

*

 

It was a near miss on the elevator, but they managed to make it into their suite before Steve proceeded to make good on their deal. She hadn’t counted on him having such a deep-seated affinity for silk stockings, though it wasn’t altogether surprising.

 

A scrabble against the wall in the front hallway resolved itself into a bout of fast, athletic lovemaking, forestalling any serious attempt to get Peggy out of the dress at all. Peggy, who had been feeling far too gently handled of late, voiced her resounding approval, feeling more grateful than ever for the Tower’s spectacular soundproofing.

 

Momentarily satisfied, but not entirely sated, she kept her legs wrapped around his waist as he carried her into the bedroom. There, at long last, the dress came off—though the stockings stayed on, to the immense gratification of everyone involved.

 

Much later still, as they lay in a tangle of limbs and rumpled bedding, Peggy asked Steve if he’d mind terribly making her a cup of tea.

 

She was perfectly capable of boiling a kettle—even the electronic variety, now—but since they’d been at the Tower, she’d learned through experience how much it delighted him to be asked to fetch and carry. It felt as though she were the one indulging him, rather than the reverse. As with any indulgence, however, she saved it for special occasions.

 

Peggy had only ever seen Steve drink coffee, but he surprised her by coming back to bed with two mugs. Peggy’s tea was made the ordinary way, with milk. Steve’s had lemon; she’d seen Natasha take it that way as well, when they’d had breaks from training.

 

The correlation didn’t bother her at all. Steve both was and wasn’t the man he'd been when they'd parted; but she loved the man he was now, and he felt the same about her, and that was what counted in the end.

 

He sat with his back against the headboard and sipped his tea in thoughtful silence for a moment, before asking, “You’re happy, right?”

 

“I’ll tell you in a moment.” She tasted her own tea. “Hm. Delirious.”

 

“With me, I mean,” he persisted.

 

She nodded, wondering what he could be driving at.

 

Looking very serious, he declared, “We should elope.”

 

Peggy opened her mouth to reply, but a laugh escaped before she could stop it.

 

He frowned. “Never mind, then.”

 

“Oh, _Steve_.” She petted his shoulder soothingly. “We’re not children, there isn’t a war on, and there’s no one around who could possibly object. If we want to get married, we can do it the regular way, and invite people. Or, we can go to a courthouse, and not invite anyone, if you feel like that about it. Though I rather think Tony and Pepper might be put out, since they invited us to theirs.”

 

“But you’d like to?”

 

Peggy didn’t feel an ounce of reticence about giving her honest answer. She had complete confidence in herself, her place in this world, and Steve’s place in hers. She loved him, entirely, and she would gladly take a vow like the ones Tony and Pepper had exchanged.

 

Still, she couldn’t help teasing him, just a little. “I suspect I might, but there’s no way to know for certain, unless you propose to me properly.”

 

He smiled at her, sidelong and almost shy.

 

Peggy peered suspiciously into her cup.

 

“Something wrong?”

 

“I don’t fancy choking to death on an engagement ring. A fine end that would be to all of this.”

 

“You’re safe,” he assured her. “Guess I got ahead of myself there, huh?”

 

“We’ve waited a long time. You can hardly be blamed for putting the cart before the horse, just this once.”

 

“Does that make you the cart or the—hey!” he exclaimed, as she gave the fleshy part of his forearm a sharp tweak. He turned to give her a look that had more desire in it than annoyance. “Watch those nails.”

 

She felt her own blood rising in response. “I don’t take kindly to being compared to a farm animal.”

 

Grinning unrepentantly, he said, “Guess I still have a lot to learn about how to talk to women.”

 

“Fortunately, darling,” she replied, setting her mug aside to pull him close, “you need only impress one.”

 

**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of my visual references for this chapter:
> 
>  
> 
> [Pepper’s dress](http://static1.squarespace.com/static/53921525e4b0e7c55d3ddaaa/53fd3590e4b085ab0d3849ba/540dd36de4b090d48259e1e1/1440178761642/RK525+-+01+-+Front+-+High+Res.jpg?format=750w)
> 
>  
> 
> [Peggy's dress, AKA the Hayley Atwell photoshoot that first inspired me to write about modern-day Peggy](http://pcwallart.com/images/hayley-atwell-red-dress-wallpaper-1.jpg)


End file.
